RING   O'  RUSHES 


Ring  o'  Rushes 

BY 

SHAN  F.  BULLOCK 


NEW  YORK 

STONE  &  KIMBALL 

M  DCCC  XCVI 


COPYRIGHT,  1896,  BY 
STONE    AND     K1MBALL 


TO 

MY   BROTHERS   IN    CHICAGO 


RING   O'   RUSHES. 


PROLOGUE. 

T  F  you  enter  Lismahee  town  by  way  of  the  ferry 
road,  you  pass  the  church,  standing  high  beyond 
the  graveyard  wall  among  its  yews  and  tombstones ; 
then  have  a  glimpse  of  the  massive  walls  and  shining 
•windows  of  the  poorhouse  {the  very  walls  which  once 
heard  the  rumblings  of  Debbie  Chance,  and  below 
which  Solomon  Gray  used  to  take  his  weekly  turn  at 
the  pump  wheel)  ;  presently  come  to  a  filthy,  ill-condi- 
tioned alley,  through  which  you  pass,  and  at  once 
strike  Lismahee  in  its  very  vitals. 

This  way  and  that,  the  long  wide  street  —  which,  as 
in  most  Irish  towns,  is  Lismahee  itself —  runs  straight 
and  level ;  a  post  car  rattles  over  the  stones  ;  children 
sport  on  the  sidewalks ;  shop  keepers  sit  smoking  on 
their  window-sills  ;  here  and  there  a  cart  stands  in  the 
gutter,  with  a  horse  dozing  between  the  shafts ;  from 


viii  Ring  o*  Rushes. 

the  gardens  and  yards  comes  the  sound  of  voices,  the 
clatter  of  cans,  the  clutter  of  fowls ;  the  sunlight  dances 
on  the  high  white  walls,  drowsiness  is  in  the  air, 
the  reek  of  peat  smoke  (how  wholesomely  pungent  it 
comes  ! )  hangs  heavy :  behind  the  iron  rails  over  there 
is  the  market  yard,  higher  up  is  the  bank,  lower  down 
the  town  pump,  facing  it  the  police  barracks,  beyond 
that  the  town  hall  (before  which,  one  day,  Phelim 
cried  to  Heaven  for  pity  as  he  stood  by  his  battered 
caubeen)  ;  thence  your  way  lies  over  a  ragged  side- 
walk, past  limewashed  houses,  dingy  shops,  the  pillared 
porch  of  an  inglorious  hotel,  the  elegant  mansion.1: 
(withdrawn  somewhat  from  the  vulgar  eye  of  the 
street}  of  the  town  magnates  ;  then,  all  at  mice,  hedges, 
ditches,  the  open  country,  and,  in  a  little  while,  the 
pointed  doorway  of  the  railway  station. 

Irish  trains  are  delightftdly  easy-going ;  they  tarry 
long  by  platforms,  and  dally  along  the  track  ;  so  that, 
as  you  make  the  ten  miles  or  so  which  lies  between 
Lismahee  and  Clogheen,  you  have  ample  opportunity, 
right  and  left,  to  spy  out  the  beauties  of  the  land.  And 
a  beautiful  country  it  is  just  there :  broad, fresh,  cheer- 
ful, huddled  with  hills,  dotted  with  cottages,  cut  into 
the  semblance  of  some  huge  patch-work  coverlet  by  the 
tall  thick  hedges;  here  a  clump  of  stunted  trees  with 


Prologue.  ix 

the  grey  rock  shining  out  from  the  underwood,  there 
a  stretch  of  heather ed  bog  with  its  mud-house  and 
sparkling  pools,  and  piles  of  black  wet  peat;  on  this 
side  a  very  prairie  (beyond  which,  say  three  miles 
away,  lies  the  village  of  Knock},  on  that  a  sudden  view 
of  hazy  mountains  ;  presently,  a  grove  of  firs,  a  house 
on  the  hill,  a  smiling  valley,  and,  just  beyond,  the 
spires  and  roofs  of  Clogheen. 

Clogheen  stands  on  a  hill,  and  is  a  town  of  streets. 
Commissioners  watch  its  interests;  round  one  of  the 
finest  diamonds  in  Ulster  stand  the  houses  of  the  citi- 
zens ;  in  the  advertisement  columns  of  the  county 
newspapers  its  shops  appear  as  Emporiums;  its 
church,  chapel,  town  hall,  hotels,  are  buildings  worthy 
of  its  greatness :  but  if  you  want  to  see  Clogheen  in  its 
glory,  walk  through  its  surging  streets  on  fair  or 
market  day.  Then  —  Ah  me  ! 

Along  the  fair  green  runs  the  high  road  to  Bunn  ; 
but,  if  you  can  spare  an  hour,  resist  the  blandishments 
of  the  station  car  drivers,  linger  awhile  on  the  plat- 
form —  admiring  the  book-stall,  the  brawny  corduroyed 
porters,  the  pigs  and  cattle  in  the  vans,  picturing  to 
yourself,  maybe,  Mary  the  emigrant  standing  there 
weeping  by  her  old  yellow  trunk  ;  and  presently  take 
a  seat  with  me  in  the  afternoon  train  for  Glann. 


x  Ring  °'  Rushes. 

Ah  !  now  we  are  on  familiar  ground  ;  now  recollec- 
tions come  crowding.  How  often  past  those  hills  and 
hedges  has  one  come  glorying  and  gone  sorrowing;  how 
many  that  one  knew,  sons  and  daughters  of  Ring  o' 
Rushes,  have  sobbed  good-bye,  good-bye,  to  every  field 
out  there,  as,  homesick  and  heartbroken,  they  passed 
them  for  the  last  time  !  See,  there  is  Caroo  House,  to 
which  Herself  came  one  day  in  tears ;  there,  among 
the  trees,  is  Bartiey  French's  old  home;  the  land  is 
fair,  you  see,  well-watered,  full  of  trees  and  hills, 
ringed  with  mountains  ;  there  is  Ballyhob  Junction  ; 
there  at  last  the  flashing  roofs  of  Bunn. 

Bunn  !  the  town  of  towns,  the  El  Dorado  of  one's 
youth,  how  can  child  of  yours  (disillusioned  now,  and 
how  little  the  happier  !  )  look  upon  your  battered  streets 
and  ragged  houses  without  tears  ?  What  happenings 
one  has  seen  from  these  market-house  steps ;  what 
memories  every  stone  of  you  holds  ;  how  the  old  familiar 
faces  come  pressing  through  the  blue  haze  of  your  peat 
smoke  !  There  the  emigrants  go  skirling  down  the 
brae  towards  the  station  ;  up  to  God's  acre  our  friends 
go  silently  ;  down  from  God's  house  the  flower-crowned 
pairs  come  joyfully  ;  there  is  Shan  Grogan  dusting  his 
hat  on  the  sidewalk  ;  from  the  post  office  Tim  Kerin 
comes  shuffling  over  the  stones,  and  wagging  his  old 


Prologue.  xi 

head  in  search  of  Nan  his  wife.  Ah,  John,  my  son, 
before  you  go  swaggering  up  Barrack  Hill,  take  good 
heed  of  that  joke  of  yours.  Hush  !  here  comes  His 
Magnificence  stalking  up  from  the  station.  On  he 
comes ;  picking  his  way  through  the  mud,  flashing  his 
rings,  looking  right  and  left  with  disdainful  eye :  let 
us  join  the  crowd  of  his  admirers  and  humbly  follow 
in  his  footsteps. 

Down  hill  we  go,  past  the  police  barracks  and  the  but- 
ter market ;  soon,  cross  the  bridge,  and  in  two  minutes 
are  out  in  the  brown  dust  of  the  county  road.  Broad 
and  level  the  road  runs  between  its  high  thick  hedges, 
past  lush  meadows  and  scant  pasture-land  and  rush- 
clad  hills ;  here  and  there  a  house  peeps  between  the 
alders  ;  right  before  you  my  lord  the  mountain  arches 
his  long  back  against  the  blue ;  the  sun  rides  high, 
the  clouds  hang  silvern  over  a  drowsy  land. 

His  Magtiificence  crosses  Multy  Bridge  and  enters 
Bilboa,  the  land  of  whins,  rushes,  poplars ;  now  he 
quickens  his  pace  as  he  cresses  Thrasna  River  and 
enters  Gorteen,  the  land  of  orchards,  gardens,  pleas- 
ant cottages,  of  drum  and  fife,-  of  wisdom  and  all  the 
virtues.  Up  on  the  right,  Rhamus  Castle  stands  frown- 
ing in  its  solitude  ;  over  there  is  Emo,  stretching  its 
hedges  along  the  Curleck  road  from  Stonegate  down 


xii  Ring  °'  Rushes. 

to  the  little  bridge  on  which,  one  winter's  night,  George 
Lunny  rested  his  stilts  ;  beyond  that  rush-fringed  lake, 
a  thatched  house  lies  snug  in  the  hollow  of  the  hills, 
the  home  of  one  Rachel  Hoey  ;  now  comes  a  stretch  of 
bog,  brown  with  heather  and  peat,  across  which,  many 
a  time,  Jane  Fallon  tramped  on  her  way  to  church ; 
here  is  the  boreen  down  which  His  Magnificence  is 
even  now  treading  disgustedly  through  the  mud.  Up 
the  hill  we  go,  past  the  school-house;  turn  sharp  to  the 
right,  fast  the  forge;  and  away,  through  the  orchards 
and  firs,  down  the  broad  sandy  road  which  ends  in  a 
mile  or  two  at  the  ferry  for  Lismahee,  on  the  shore  of 
bright  Lough  Erne. 

And  now,  at  last,  we  have  made  the  circuit  —  our 
Ring  o'  Rushes  —  of  that  little  corner  of  the  earth  in 
which,  here  and  there,  the  stories  that  make  this  book 
are  set.  Often,  no  doubt,  have  you  gone  farther  and 
fared  better ;  your  feet  are  heavy  with  Irish  clay, 
your  eyes  weary  of  Irish  rushes,  hedges,  hills ;  you 
have  met  only  heavy-footed  peasants  by  the  way,  heard 
only  the  brogue,  and  the  skirl  of  the  curlews  ;  you  say, 
not  without  reason,  that  some  great  lord  of  the  soil 
easily  might  hold  our  poor  Ring  o'  Rushes  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand:  still,  strange  to  say,  many  worthy 
souls  live  happily  among  those  barren  hills,  and  love 


Prologue.  xiii 

them  steadfastly ;  some,  exiles  in  this  bustling  outer 
world,  have  left  their  hearts  there  ;  and  one  there  is, 
a  poor  smoke-dried  citizen  now,  who,  as  he  stands 
sometimes  blinking  across  his  garden  fence  at  a  sky  of 
fog  and  a  landscape  of  bricks,  has  been  known  to  cry 
out  within  himself  that  not  all  London  is  worth  that 
hill  and  valley  over  which  Rhamus  Castle  keeps 
watch  and  ward. 


Contents. 


PAGE 

His  MAGNIFICENCE 3 

THEY  THAT  MOURN .    33 

THE  RIVAL  SWAINS 49 

THEY  TWAIN 67 

SHAN'S  DIVERSION      . 93 

TH'  OULD  BOY .  109 

HER  SOGER  BOY 125 

ROGUE  BARTLEY 147 

THE  SPLENDID  SHILLING 175 

THE  EMIGRANT 205 

A  BEGGAR'S  BENEFIT     .......  219 


His  Magnificence. 


His  Magnificence. 


WHEN  His  Magnificence  stepped  from  the 
train  upon  the  dingy  little  platform  of  Bunn 
Station,  the  porter,  the  station-master,  the  car- 
driver  from  the  Diamond  Hotel,  the  loiterers, 
the  passengers,  all  did  him  reverence.  His  like 
or  equal  had  not  met  their  gaze  for  many  a  day. 
He  had  the  bearing  and  appearance  of  a  prince. 
His  luggage  was  powerful.  The  dirty  train  that 
had  carried  him,  the  paltry  station  that  received 
him,  the  yokels  who  eyed  him,  by  very  contrast, 
seemed  to  shrink  back  ashamed.  It  was  Amer- 
ica herself  set  off  against  old  Ireland. 

"  Who  is  he  at  all  ? "  whispered  one  of  the 
flurried,  heated  porters. 

"  Ach,  g'luck  an*  don't  bother  me ! "  replied 
the  porter.  "  How  the  divil  can  I  tell  ?  " 

The  car-driver,  having  an  eye  to  business, 
stole  to  the  pile  of  baggage  and  spelled  out  the 


4  His  Magnificence. 

name  on  a  label:  "THOMAS  BURKE,  ESQ." 
He  read,  whistled,  stole  back,  and  spread  the 
news. 

"  It 's  Tommy  Burke,"  said  one  to  another ; 
"  Tommy  Burke  home  from  the  States  — 
begob ! " 

The  news,  to  the  admirers  of  His  Magnifi- 
cence, brought  a  sense  of  relief  if  not  of  disap- 
pointment. He  was  no  potentate,  then,  after 
all.  Sure  they  knew  the  man  ;  he  was  only  one 
of  themselves ;  sure  they  minded  the  day  he 
went ;  did  n't  he  come  from  Gorteen  over  there  ? 
Was  n't  his  ould  mother  and  his  brother  James 
living  there  in  the  ould  place  still  ?  Ay  !  But 
who  'd  have  thought  it !  for  his  kind  never  did 
much  good  in  the  world.  Powerful,  powerful ! 
Sure  it 's  a  grand  country,  ay  ! 

"  It 's  an  ojus  pile,  y'ur  honour,"  said  the 
porter,  touching  his  cap.  "  Ye  '11  want  a  car  ?  " 

The  car-driver  stepped  forward. 

"  There  's  one  outside,  sur,  from  the  hotel, 
sur,"  said  he.  "  Mebbe  ye'd  be  wantin'  to  put 
up?" 

His  Magnificence  eyed  the  two  loftily. 

"  Yaas,"  drawled  he,  and  looked  at  the  lug- 
gage ;  "  yaas  —  reckon  it  '11  want  movin'."  He 


His  Magnificence.  5 

waved  his  hand.  "  Send  it  on ;  send  it  on  — 
you'll  see  the  address.  —  Naw,  naw,  Jehu ;  naw, 
naw,  I  want  none  o'  your  tarnation  hearses. 
Reckon  I  '11  foot  it." 

The  crowd  divided.  His  Magnificence  con- 
descended to  walk.  The  crowd  closed  in  be- 
hind him,  followed  him  through  the  station,  past 
the  hotel  car,  and  up  the  slope  towards  Bunn 
town. 

Already  the  word  had  spread.  Bunn  was  out, 
waiting,  watching,  shouting  the  news. 

"  Here  he  is !  Be  the  Holy !  Look  at  the 
watch-chain  on  him !  Ati1  the  rings  !  Och  !  an' 
the  clothes  av  him  !  An'  that 's  Tommy  Burke  ? 
Aw  now,  now !  Sure  it 's  wonderful  —  sure  it 's 
an  ojus  country  for  money  —  ay  !  ay  !  " 

Tommy,  as  he  leisurely  marched  up  the  street 
pretending  a  profound  interest  in  the  houses 
and  shops,  took  his  reception  calmly.  He  had 
reckoned  upon  making  an  impression.  It  was 
his  due.  He  heard  his  name  whispered  as  he 
passed,  heard  the  criticisms  on  his  raiment  and 
appearance,  saw  the  faces  right  and  left  at  the 
doors  before  him,  and  heard  the  swelling  chorus 
of  comment  behind  as  Bunn  left  the  doors, 
spread  across  the  street,  and  gave  play  to  its 


6  His  Magnificence. 

tongue  and  excitement.  It  was  his  due.  Every 
one  knew  him ;  all  had  no  doubt  heard  of 
his  success  in  Chicago.  It  was  natural.  But 
he?  He  knew  no  one.  He  had  forgotten 
every  one.  Phew  !  the  stink  —  that  darned 
turf  smoke.  Such  a  God-forsaken  hole  of  a 
town  !  —  rags,  dirt,  laziness.  Think  of  Chicago 
and  think  of  Bunn  !  Why,  he  himself  could  buy 
out  the  whole  place  neck  and  crop.  What  pave- 
ments !  What  littered  streets,  —  pigs,  fowls, 
dogs,  dirty  brats,  women,  men  !  What  stores  — 
merciful  heavens ! 

Really  His  Magnificence  might  well  have 
been  less  critical :  not  very  many  years  had 
gone  since  the  days  when  he  himself,  in  rags 
and  tatters,  had  hawked  turf  from  door  to  door 
through  that  very  street. 

So  His  Magnificence,  all  glorious  without,  all 
scornful  disgust  within,  marched  on,  past  the 
market-house,  down  Main  Street,  over  the  big 
stone  bridge,  —  from  which,  had  he  cared  to 
look,  he  would  have  seen  the  river  tumbling 
gloriously  among  the  boulders  and  rushing  care- 
lessly past  a  world  of  quiet  beauty  on  its  banks, 
—  went  on  along  the  road  that  leads  to  Gorteeu ; 
leaving  Bunn  excited  behind  him,  and  raising  its 


His  Magnificence.  7 

voice  in  wonder  that  such  a  personage  could 
allow  himself  to  walk  humbly  through  the  dust. 

"  Ach,"  said  Bunn,  "  sure  he  might  ha'  had  a 
poster.  Ah  !  but  mebbe  he  does  n't  want  to  be 
too  grand  goin'  to  the  ould  mother  —  ay,  ay  ! 
Well,  God  speed  him  !  But  it 's  a  power  o'  good 
some  o'  them  fine  clothes  'd  do  the  same  mother 
—  ah,  now! " 

His  Magnificence  was  walking,  first,  because 
he  wished  to  impress  the  natives  along  the  way ; 
and  next,  because  he  wanted  to  take  stock, 
leisurely,  of  the  half-forgotten  country  of  his 
birth. 

How  did  it  compare  with  the  land  of  wealth 
and  freedom  ?  H'm  !  —  paltry,  neglected,  God- 
forsaken, thought  His  Magnificence.  No  enter- 
prise, no  capital,  no  anything,  — just  the  same  as 
when  he  had  left  it,  just  the  same.  Little  fields 
smothered  all  round  with  big  hedges,  rushes, 
whins,  spade  labour,  marshes,  bogs,  naked 
wretched  houses,  struggling  starved  peasantry,  — 
these  are  what  he  saw,  these  only.  He  had  no 
eyes  for  the  wild  beauty  of  the  hills  crowding 
away  towards  his  Majesty  the  mountain,  for  the 
peaceful  wind  of  the  stream  flowing  between 
the  reeds  and  bulrushes  along  meadows  and 


8  His  Magnificence. 

fields,  past  the  great  pointed  alders  and  the 
grazing  cattle ;  the  dappled  blue  sky  above,  and 
the  rich  tinted  earth  below  —  how  could  Tommy 
have  eyes  for  all  this  ?  He  was  a  citizen,  a  hunter 
of  the  dollar;  trade,  pavements,  smoke,  dust, 
these  were  his  kind  :  all  that  was  nothing,  there 
was  no  money  in  it. 

Yet  the  country  through  which  he  was  march- 
ing was  the  country  of  his  birth  ;  it  had  reared 
him  well  and  given  him  a  good  start  in  health 
and  brains.  He  might  have  condescended  to 
look  kindly  on  it,  His  Magnificence  might,  and 
to  feel  a  little  thrill  of  emotion  as  he  came  grad- 
ually on  scenes  and  places  which  recalled  his 
boyhood.  He  had  done  well  away  from  the  old 
country  —  it  was  none  the  worse  for  that ;  he 
had  friends  still  lingering  in  its  fields  and  homes ; 
his  old  mother  and  his  one  brother  were  over  in 
Gorteen ;  it  was  not  so  bad  that  he  did  not  care 
to  come  back  to  it,  just  for  a  holiday,  to  see  his 
mother,  to  let  people  admire  him  and  his,  to  — 

A  little  white  house,  perched  on  the  brow  of 
a  hill,  away  over  Thrasna  River  in  the  land  of 
Gorteen,  caught  his  eye.  He  stopped  dead ; 
gazed  at  the  house  awhile ;  then,  with  his  head 
down,  walked  on.  Bessie  Darling,  he  was  think- 


His  Magnificence.  9 

ing  —  Bessie  Darling,  is  she  there  now,  over 
there  in  that  white  cottage  beyond  Thrasna 
River? 

He  looked  up  again.  How  often  he  had  gone 
up  that  hill ;  how  often  had  he  sat  inside  those 
white  walls  by  the  cheery  hearthstone  !  Bessie, 
Bessie  —  he  wondered  how  time  and  the  world 
had  used  her.  He  was  fond  of  her  —  once,  he 
remembered.  It  was  on  this  very  road,  he 
remembered,  going  home  one  day  from  Bunn 
Fair  —  a  little  elated  and  reckless,  because  of 
Bunn  whisky,  perhaps  —  that  he  had  asked  her 
to  marry  him.  Had  he  asked  her  or  only  hinted  ? 
He  forgot.  Anyway  he  had  promised  at  the 
parting  to  come  back  from  America  to  fetch 
her. 

Well,  he  had  come.  Tommy  Burke  was  ever 
a  man  of  his  word,  —  he  had  come  back  faithful 
to  his  promise.  .  .  .  To  fetch  her  ?  Ah !  that 
was  another  matter.  Circumstances  had  altered 
things.  .  .  .  Curious  how  she  had  dropped  out 
of  his  mind!  Once  he  had  written,  long  ago; 
once  had  she  written  long  ago ;  then  came  work 
—  work  and  success.  Once  or  twice,  years  ago, 
he  had  thought  of  her  —  once  or  twice.  .  .  . 
Where  was  she  now  ?  he  wondered ;  had  she 


io  His  Magnificence. 

forgotten  him,  or  was  she  still  waiting  for  him 
to  come  and  fetch  her  ?  Oh !  he  hoped  not. 
Suppose  she  were  waiting  over  there  for  him ; 
suppose  she  held  him  to  his  promise.  Great 
Jupiter!  Tommy  Burke  marry  a  lump  of  a 
country  colleen  !  She  used  to  be  fair  and  sweet ; 
half  the  country  had  been  jealous  of  him.  Yes, 
but  that  was  years  ago.  What  was  she  now  ? 
Bah !  Absurd.  She  might  go  to  Jerusalem. 
He  could  break  his  promise,  —  yes,  and  pay  for 
breaking  it.  Yes,  siree  ! 

He  raised  his  head,  and,  looking  across  the 
fields,  tried  to  fall  again  into  his  old,  complacent, 
critical  groove.  But,  somehow,  the  effort  did 
not  succeed.  His  eyes  would  wander  towards 
the  white  house  on  the  hill.  The  name  Bessie 
would  sing  in  his  ears.  He  foresaw  possible 
trouble.  The  glory  that  had  shone  on  him  for 
a  while  in  Bunn  somehow  shone  no  longer. 
No  longer  did  he  watch  for  the  effect  of  his 
presence  on  the  yokels  who  met  him,  nor  half 
turn  his  head  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  their  open- 
eyed  stare  as  they  turned  and  gazed  after  him. 
He  stamped  his  foot  on  the  stones. 

"Damn  it!"  he  said.  "Why  did  I  come 
back  to  this  cursed  country?" 


His  Magnificence.  n 

He  crossed  Thrasna  River  and  entered  the 
land  of  Gorteen  —  that  land  of  wisdom  which 
eternally  is  honoured  in  calling  Tommy  son. 
Here  things  took  a  better  and  more  familiar 
aspect,  and  the  spirits  of  Tommy  became  less 
of  a  burden.  Bilboa,  through  which  he  had 
just  passed  —  Pah !  he  remembered  it  was  a 
nest  of  rebels ;  no  wonder  it  was  a  wilderness. 
But  Gorteen  was  fairer,  and  its  people  were 
children  of  loyalty  and  worth,  if  not  of  wealth. 
The  cottages,  here  and  there,  with  their  gardens 
and  orchards,  were  pleasant  to  look  upon ;  the 
hedges  were  often  trim,  the  fields  within  them 
not  a  reproach.  Poverty  was  everywhere  ;  yes, 
poverty  or  next  thing  above  it ;  still,  it  was  not 
sluggards'  poverty ;  there  were  everywhere  signs 
of  a  hard  patient  struggle  against  adversity. 
But  Tommy  Burke  was  fast  regaining  his 
magnificence.  He  shook  himself  inside  his 
well-filled  raiment  as  he  mounted  a  ditch  and 
looked  across  the  hedge  at  a  field  of  young 
corn. 

"  Good  God  ! "  he  said  half  aloud ;  "  what  is 
it  at  its  best  ?  Why  do  people  stay  on  and 
struggle  in  this  unfortunate  country  ?  Why 
can't  they  leave  it,  and  do  like  me  ?  " 


12  His   Magnificence. 

He  shook  his  head ;  it  was  inexplicable. 
Why  had  he  left  it?  he  thought.  Brains,  he 
answered,  brains  had  led  him.  Why  did  his 
mother  choose  to  stay  on  in  it  rather  than  come 
to  him  in  America?  He  had  asked  her  more 
than  once  —  he  did  not  choose  to  remember 
tnat  the  asking  her  was  all  he  had  ever  done 
for  her  —  why  had  she  chosen  to  stay  on  there 
in  poverty,  living  with  his  brother  in  their  hut  on 
their  bit  of  wilderness  ?  Old  associations  — 
love  of  the  land  ?  Ah !  to  glory  with  such 
talk.  .  .  .  He  would  have  to  sleep  in  that  hut 
to-night,  eat  there  —  Ah  !  he  would  drive  back 
and  sleep  in  Bunn  — 

"  Morra,"  came  loudly  across  the  road  behind 
him  ;  "  that 's  a  brave  crop  now." 

The  voice  was  familiar.  His  Magnificence 
turned :  there  in  a  field  across  the  road  stood 
big  Ned  Nolan  and  his  son  James,  leaning  on 
their  shovels  and  gazing  curiously  at  him  from 
the  potato  furrows. 

"  Why,"  said  Ned,  throwing  down  his  shovel 
and  starting  forward,  wiping  his  palm  on  his 
breeches.  "  No  !  —  begob  it  is  !  Arrah,  how  's 
yourself,  Tommy,  me  boy  ?  Welcim  back,  me 
son,  to  the  ould  country !  Why,  ye  stand  it 


His  Magnificence.  13 

rightly  —  begob  !  the  best."  He  gave  Tommy's 
hand  a  squeeze  that  made  him  wince.  "  Och  ! 
boys,  O  boys  !  "  Ned  went  on,  "  but  you  're 
changed  !  —  not  the  same  man  at  all,  at  all  — 
dear,  oh  dear  !  Hoi,  James  !  come  here,  ye  boy 
ye !  here 's  Tommy  Burke  back  from  the 
States." 

James  slouched  out  of  his  furrow,  bashfully 
took  Tommy's  hand,  and  stood  back,  mutely 
admiring,  whilst  his  father  roared  out  the 
country-side  news  for  the  last  five  years  and 
more,  —  all  who  had  died,  who  married,  who 
changed  farms,  and  so  on. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Ned,  "  powerful  changes  — 
powerful.  But  the  ould  mother  beyant  stands 
it  rightly  —  aw  the  best.  I  need  n't  tell  ye, 
av  coorse,"  Ned  went  on,  looking  sideways 
at  Tommy,  "  that  Bessie  Darlin'  's  married  — 
eh  ?  Ye  did  n't  know  !  Well  now,  well  now  ! 
— Away  !  married  an'  doin'  well.  An'  ye  did  n't 
know  ?  Sure  I  thought  —  " 

His  Magnificence  turned  the  talk.  The 
news  was  good;  he  could  have  given  Ned  a 
dollar  because  of  it ;  his  heart  was  jumping ; 
the  sky  had  cleared :  still,  he  could  not  allow 
Ned  Nolan  to  be  familiar  or  to  draw  conclusions. 


14  His  Magnificence. 

He  gave  out,  for  quick  circulation  round  the 
country-side,  a  few  facts  about  himself  and  his 
estate ;  set  the  mouth  of  Ned's  son  James  wider 
agape  with  a  few  observations  on  the  glories 
of  Chicago ;  then  shook  the  clay  from  his  boots 
and  took  again  to  the  road. 

Ned  and  James  went  back  to  the  potato 
furrows,  leant  thoughtfully  on  their  shovels, 
and  watched  Tommy  make  his  way  up  the 
boreen  that  led  to  his  mother's  cottage. 

"  Jist  to  think  o'  that,"  said  Ned,  and  shook 
his  head;  "rowlin'  in  money,  an'  I  mind  the 
day  ye  could  count  the  ribs  o'  him  through  his 
tatters !  Man !  James,  did  ye  see  yon  watch- 
chain  ?  Sure  it 's  as  thick  as  a  cart  tether  — 
an'  it's  goold 7  An'  the  rings  av  him  !  Och, 
och!" 

"Ay,"  said  James,  "th'  ould  mother  '11  go 
daft  over  him  —  ay !  I  dunno  but  mebbe 
Bessie  Darlin'  'd  better  ha'  waited  a  while  afore 
marryin'  —  ay  !  " 

Ned  turned  and  winked  at  James. 

"  You  're  right  there,  James,"  said  he  ;  "  ay 
—  an'  d'ye  mind  the  liar  he  is,  pretendin'  he 
did  n't  know  she  was  married  !  Could  n't  I 
see  he  was  cut  about  it,  him  pullin'  me  up  that 


His  Magnificence.  15 

short  —  troth,  ay  !  Well,  fire  away  at  that  fur- 
row ;  sure  I  must  g'  way  home  an'  tell  Mary  the 
news." 

Meanwhile  His  Magnificence  was  picking 
his  way  along  the  boreen;  not  swearing  over- 
much at  the  ruts  and  the  puddles;  nor  yet 
letting  his  heart  beat  swiftly  because  of  the 
surprise  he  was  about  to  spring  on  his  old 
mother,  not  even  raising  his  head  that  he  might 
look  out  over  the  fields  or  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  home  of  his  youth  there  in  front.  Why 
should  he  look?  Did  he  not  know  that  the 
lane  he  was  stepping  through,  and  the  fields 
around  him,  and  the  house  before  him,  were 
just  as  they  had  ever  been  and  just  as  they 
would  ever  remain?  Yes;  and,  for  the  rest, 
was  he  not  walking  with  his  thoughts  ? 

Bessie's  married,  he  kept  thinking  —  Bessie 's 
married;  and  his  little  heart  was  glad.  For 
the  last  time  but  one  that  day,  he  was  His 
Magnificence  every  inch  of  him.  Trouble  had 
fled.  He  could  enjoy  himself  now;  air  his 
splendour  about  the  country ;  do  something 
for  his  people  ;  betake  himself  to  his  own  coun- 
try when  he  felt  so  disposed.  He  thanked  his 
Maker  Bessie  was  married. 


1 6  His  Magnificence. 

How  was  it  he  had  never  heard?  His 
brother  had  written  once  or  twice,  without  say- 
ing anything.  How  was  it?  Oh,  forgot  per- 
haps,—  or  felt  that  the  news  would  be  of  no 
interest.  She  had  been  married  for  years,  Ned 
said.  For  years  ?  Ha !  how  soon  she  had 
forgotten  him  !  Woman's  constancy  !  Bah  ! 
He  had  not  married  —  no  !  He  had  come  back 
single  —  yes !  And  perhaps  had  she  been 
single  and  clean,  and  decent,  and  not  vulgar, 
and  had  not  gone  off  too  much,  he  might  — 
who  knew  ?  Ah !  if  she  only  knew  —  great 
Scott !  —  only  knew  what  she  had  missed. 
Missed  him  —  missed  Chicago,  and  wealth,  and 
position,  and  all  the  rest !  If  she  only  knew  — 
yes,  and  she  should  know,  soon  too,  what  her 
hurry  and  promise-breaking  had  done  for  her. 
Yes,  siree ! 

By  this  His  Magnificence  had  steered  himself 
safely  up  the  boreen,  and  had  passed  the  gate, 
just  then  lying  wrecked  on  the  ditch  against 
the  hedge,  which  on  rare  occasions  had  been 
known  to  keep  goats  and  swine  from  invading 
the  precincts  of  the  home  of  all  the  Burkes. 
Was  he  magnificent  still  ?  Hardly.  Twenty 
yards  off  was  his  old  mother.  Did  his  heart 


His  Magnificence.  17 

leap  even  now  ?  Perhaps  so,  —  one  thinks 
not. 

He  crossed  the  noisome  tract  which  lay 
between  the  unsightliness  of  the  byre  on  the 
one  hand  and  the  unsavouriness  of  the  dung- 
hill on  the  other,  daintily  stepped  through  the 
hens  and  ducks  over  the  dirty-puddled  yard, 
and  came  to  the  door  of  his  old  home. 

At  the  threshold  he  paused  and  looked  round. 
Just  the  same  —  just  the  same  —  dirt,  slatternli- 
ness, poverty  —  the  Burkes  were  ever  good-for- 
nothings.  He  was,  he  reflected,  the  only  well- 
doer of  them  all  —  Pah  ! 

He  lifted  the  latch,  and  poked  his  head  into 
the  smoke. 

"Mrs.  Burke!"  he  shouted.  "Does  Mrs. 
Burke  live  here  ?  " 

"Who's  that?"  came  back.  "Who  are 
ye?" 

"  A  strainger,"  said  Tommy.  "  Are  you  Mrs. 
Burke?" 

"  Yis  —  yis,"  said  his  mother  as  she  came 
towards  the  door.  "  Why  —  why  —  why  —  Ah 
God!  ah  God!  it's  Tommy  —  ah  me  son,  me 
son !  Aw  —  aw  —  aw !  " 

The  next  moment  a  pair  of  old  yellow  arms 
2 


1 8  His  Magnificence. 

were  round  His  Magnificence,  and  willy-nilly  he 
was  dragged  by  the  neck  into  the  smoke  and 
gloom  of  the  home  of  his  ancestors.  Really,  it 
served  His  Magnificence  right. 

One  can  hardly  say  that  Tommy  was  happy 
as  he  sat  one  side  of  the  hearth-stone,  in  a 
straight-backed  arm-chair,  staring  gloomily  at 
the  black  tea-drawer  boiling  on  the  coals  and 
the  bacon  frizzling  on  the  pan  —  Oh,  what  a 
dinner!  thought  he  —  whilst  his  old  mother 
held  his  hand,  crooned  over  him,  and  by  the 
score  showered  on  him  questions  about  himself 
and  his  welfare. 

He  answered  dolefully,  evasively  ;  how  could 
he  answer  otherwise,  sitting  in  such  a  den, 
surrounded  by  such  poverty,  choked  by  such 
smoke,  all  the  time  very  well  aware  that  his 
splendour  was  down  in  the  dirt,  —  down  in  the 
dirt  with  his  own  mother,  where  he  had  been 
born,  and  where,  all  the  years  of  his  well-doing, 
he  had  suffered  his  mother  to  remain  ? 

How  could  he  talk  freely  to  her  of  his  wealth 
and  his  trade  and  his  friends?  His  moral 
perception  was  not  very  delicate ;  but  it  was 
sufficiently  awake  to  give  him  the  impression 
that  to  speak  of  these  things  was  almost  to 


His  Magnificence.  19 

reproach  himself.  Besides,  she  would  not 
understand  —  better  unfold  his  tale  gradually. 
She  was  old  and  crotchety ;  perhaps  —  and  God 
knows  it  was  the  basest  thought  Thomas 
Burke's  little  soul  ever  bred  —  she  might  re- 
proach him,  taunt  him,  point  at  him  and  then 
at  herself,  and  mutter  hard  things  about  selfish- 
ness and  ingratitude.  How  could  he  answer 
except  dolefully  and  evasively? 

Truly  the  day's  passing  was  not  bringing 
added  splendour  to  His  Magnificence. 

Presently  his  mother  let  go  his  hand,  and 
rose  to  get  the  dinner.  Phew  !  —  the  smoke, 
the  stuffiness,  the  gloom. 

"  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  mother,"  he  cried, 
"open  the  door,  the  window  —  anything,  and 
give  me  air.  I  '11  choke." 

"  Ah,  aisy,  me  son,"  said  his  mother,  as  she 
tottered  to  open  the  door,  "aisy  —  whisht!  — 
it 's  nothin' ;  it 's  only  them  fools  o'  turf,  all  wet 
they  are.  Come,  sit  over  now,  an'  ate." 

Tommy  looked  at  the  bare,  littered  table  in 
disgust,  and  the  strong  coarse  food  thereon. 
His  soul  revolted ;  his  manhood  sickened ;  he 
gulped  down  a  few  mouthfuls  ;  then,  declaring 
he  had  no  appetite,  threw  down  his  knife  and 


2O  His   Magnificence. 

fork,  lit  a  cigar,  and  pulled  his  chair  nearer  the 
open  door. 

"  You  never  sent  me  word  about  Bessie 
Darling's  marriage,  mother ! "  he  said. 

"  Och  no.  Sure  James  wrote  seldom  ;  I  for- 
got to  tell  him.  How  did  ye  find  out?  " 

"  H'm !  Reckon  ye  did  n't  forget,  mother. 
Who 's  the  man  ?  Any  one  I  know  ?  " 

"  Why,  sure  ye  know.  Did  n't  ye  hear  ? 
Francy  Phillips  there  beyant  on  the  hill." 

"Ah!     Married  long  ?" 

"  Och  ay  —  this  —  this  years  an'  years.  Sure, 
she 's  four  childer  already.  Tommy,"  his 
mother  said,  as  she  tottered  forward  and 
clutched  his  arm,  "  ye  missed  her  well,  dear. 
What  'd  the  likes  o'  you,  wi'  all  that  property, 
do  wi'  the  likes  o'  her  ?  I  was  rejoiced  to 
hear  av  her  goin'  —  rejoiced  now.  But  sure  ye 
niver  cared  much  for  her.  Why  should  I  tell 
ye?" 

True,  thought  Tommy,  true  ;  why  should  he 
know?  He  had  missed  her  well.  Still,  how 
soon  she  had  forgotten  him.  Ah  !  if  she  only 
knew  what  she  had  missed.  She  should  know ; 
and  at  once. 

"  Yaas  —  no  doubt  —  yaas,"  he  replied  to  his 


His  Magnificence.  21 

mother.  "  Waal,  I  reckon  I  '11  take  a  look 
around.  Go  and  see  James,  perhaps.  Find 
him  in  the  bog,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Under  pretence  of  going  to  see  his  brother, 
just  then  busy  at  the  turf,  Tommy  crossed  the 
fields,  made  a  circuit  of  the  bog,  climbed  a  hill, 
and  boldly  opened  the  gate  of  Francis  Phillips' 
garden. 

The  walk  was  trim,  the  flower-beds  orderly, 
the  cottage  neat ;  he  rapped  at  a  green  door 
with  a  brass  knocker.  He  heard  a  sudden 
bustle  inside,  saw  a  face  pressed  for  an  instant 
against  the  parlour  window :  the  door  opened, 
and  his  old  love  stood  before  him. 

Ah !  thought  His  Magnificence,  thank  Heaven. 

She  was  every  inch  an  Irish  farmer's  wife  — 
stout,  bare-armed,  fresh-complexioned,  dressed 
in  a  loose  bodice,  a  quilted  petticoat,  heavy 
boots,  and  wearing  an  old  straw  hat  over  her 
black  rough  hair. 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  His  Magnificence, 
as  he  raised  his  hat 

"  Good  evenin',  sir." 

"  Are  you  Mrs.  Phillips  ?  " 

"Yes, sir."  His  Magnificence  swelled  him- 
self. 


22  His  Magnificence. 

"  Aow  —  well,  I  'm  Thomas  Burke,  just  home 
from  America,  ye  know." 

Mrs.  Phillips  bit  her  lip,  reddened  a  little, 
made  a  pluck  at  her  apron  —  then  put  out  her 
hand. 

"  Faith  an'  you  're  welcim,  Mister  Burke," 
said  she.  "  Sorra  bit  o'  me  knew  ye  at  first. 
Sure  it 's  good  o'  ye  to  come  to  see  me.  Come 
in,  now,  come  in ! " 

She  led  the  way  —  and  as  she  went  His 
Magnificence  was  not  less  thankful  to  Heaven 
for  his  deliverance  from  her  well-worn  charms 
at  sight  of  the  size  and  shape  of  her  hob-nailed 
boots  clattering  along  beneath  her  milk-stained 
petticoat  —  through  the  narrow  earth-floored 
hall,  just  then  heavy  with  smoke  and  kitchen 
odours,  into  the  little  earth-floored  parlour, 
where  the  atmosphere  struck  close  and  smoky; 
dragged  forward  a  chair,  and  asked  him  to  sit 
down. 

An'  this  is  Tommy,  thought  Bessie,  as,  pulling 
off  her  hat  and  seating  herself  before  him,  she 
let  her  eye  take  in  fully  the  details  of  his  person 
—  his  jewelery,  fine  linen,  fatness,  gray  hairs. 
Troth  the  world  has  used  him  well,  thought  she. 
What  has  he  come  for?  To  throw  taunts  at 


His  Magnificence.  23 

one,  I  suppose  ?  Well,  let  him !  Why  did  he 
go  an'  leave  me  ? 

"  Ye  stand  it  well,  Mister  Burke,"  said  she. 
"  But  now  you  're  odious  changed.  I  wid  n't  ha' 
known  ye." 

"  Yaas,"  drawled  His  Magnificence ;  "  reckon 
I  am  —  it 's  a  good  while  since  you  last  saw  me." 

Ah  !  now  it 's  coming,  thought  Bessie. 

"  Aw,  'deed  it  is,"  she  said,  "  'deed  it  is  — 
years  an'  years.  Here  am  I  an  ould  married 
woman  since  that  —  ay,- ay  !  " 

She  was  giving  His  Magnificence  every 
chance ;  better  get  it  over,  thought  she. 

"  Yaas  —  heard  about  you  from  some  one  along 
the  road,  I  think,"  drawled  His  Magnificence. 
"  Congratulate  you.  Yaas,  reckon  I  am  changed, 
some.  Not  married  myself  —  yet ;  but  I  've 
done  some  hard  work  since  I  left  this  caountry 
—  left  something  considerable  behind  me  when 
I  started  across  the  herring-pond." 

Bessie  peered  hard  at  him  under  her  half- 
closed  eyelids.  She  could  not  follow  his  drift. 
Is  n't  he  going  to  say  a  word  to  me,  thought 
she,  about  myself  at  all  ? 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  she. 

His  Magnificence  looked  slowly  all  round  the 


24  His  Magnificence. 

room  —  at  the  old  yellow  engravings  in  their 
wide  walnut  frames  hanging  against  the  damp- 
streaked  walls;  at  the  woollen  antimacassars 
worked  in  orange  and  blue  hanging  over  the 
painted  chairs ;  at  the  flaring  oleograph  of  King 
William  over  the  mantelpiece,  flanked  on  either 
side  by  dim  old  photographs  in  metal  frames ; 
at  the  artificial  flowers  on  the  big  Bible  on  the 
table  ;  at  the  half  open  cupboard,  inside  which 
stood  a  whisky  bottle  among  the  best  crockery- 
ware  ;  at  the  geraniums  in  the  window-recess  — 
Lord  !  what  vulgarity,  he  thought. 

He  looked  at  Bessie  ;  and  behind  his  eyes  she 
saw  scornful  disgust. 

"You've  a  pretty  little  place  here,  I  guess, 
Mrs.  Phillips,"  he  said,  and  waved  his  jewelled 
hand. 

"  Ah,  now,"  said  she,  "  not  so  bad,  thank  God 
—  sure  I  could  ha'  been  worse.  But  it 's  a  poor 
place  to  sit  the  likes  a1  you,  Mr.  Burke;  sure  ye 
can't  be  well  used  to  it.  now  ?  " 

"  Naw,"  replied  his  thick-skinned  Magnifi- 
cence, "  p'raps  not.  I  reckon  in  Chicago  City 
I  Ve  a  fine  house  and  plenty  in  it.  My  furniture 
and  fixings  I  calc'late  would  work  out  to  a  pretty 
high  figure.  My  pictures  an'  statoos  cost  me,  I 


His  Magnificence.  25 

guess,  some  hundreds  of  dollars.  Two  domes- 
tics I  keep  —  yaas." 

"  Do  ye  now  ?  "  quoth  Bessie,  whose  tongue 
was  itching  to  mimic  his  affected  Yankee  drawl. 
"Troth,  that's  great  —  and  sure  you  're  a  great 
man,  Mr.  Burke." 

"  Yaas — out  there  '11  you  find  my  waggons  and 
my  men  in  the  streets,  and  my  firm  is  pretty  well 
known  by  now,  I  reckon.  I  stand  straight  on 
my  feet  —  yaas.  I  guess  my  income  just  now 
figures  out  to  some  few  thousand  dollars.  I  Ve 
just  come  across  for  a  little  holiday  trip,  ye 
knaow,  Mrs.  —  a  —  Phillips  —  just  to  see  the  old 
mother,  ye  knaow,  an'  some  old  friends.  My 
baggage,  I  guess,  is  coming  from  the  station 
just  naow." 

He  pulled  out  his  watch  and  rubbed  his  fat 
fingers  lovingly  round  its  gold  case  ;  then  twisted 
his  rings,  pulled  his  cuffs  down  till  the  links 
flashed,  and  spread  his  hands  over  his  knees. 
Words  could  not  have  said  plainer  :  Look  at  me, 
Bessie  Darling;  look  at  me,  and  gnash  your 
teeth. 

Bessie  folded  her  arms  and  sat  firmly  before 
him.  Ah  !  ye  big,  fat,  lying  blaggard,  ye,  she 
thought  — this  is  what  you  Ve  come  for !  Try- 


26  His  Magnificence. 

ing  to  make  little  of  me  and  show  me  what  I  did 
for  myself.  Thank  the  Lord  !  I  found  a  better 
man  than  ye.  Sure  I  always  doubted  ye.  Maybe 
if  ye  went  an'  gave  some  o'  your  money  to  your 
ould  mother  over  there  it  would  n't  hurt  her.  Ye 
selfish,  thick-headed,  ould  bull !  Sure  it 's  throw- 
ing good  words  away  to  talk  to  ye.  But  you  're 
not  going  to  sit  there  and  lord  it  over  me  —  no, 
not  if  I  know  it. 

"  Yis,"  she  said  in  her  fluent,  good-humoured 
way,  "  I  heard  talk  you  were  doin'  well,  Mister 
Burke  —  not  that  it  mattered  to  me;  but  sure 
one  can't  help  people  talkin'.  Och  !  now  it 's 
little  time  one  has  for  talk.  What  wi'  all  the 
pigs  we  have,  an'  all  the  cattle,  an1  the  ducks,  an' 
geese ;  an'  makin'  the  butter —  now  one  's  little 
time  to  clack  about  any  one's  affairs,  much  less 
strangers'.  Th'  other  day,  over  rides  Lord 
Louth  an'  sits  down  there  just  where  you  're 
sittin',  Mister  Burke,  an'  says  he  :  '  Faith,  Mrs. 
Phillips,  you  're  a  lucky  woman,  so  y'  are,  with 
the  fine  man  you  Ve  got,'  says  he,  '  an'  the  indus- 
trious. You've  the  best  farm,  Mrs.  Phillips,' 
says  he,  '  an'  the  best  stocked  farm  in  the  whole 
property.'  Ah  !  troth  he  made  me  blush,  so  he 
did ;  an'  it  was  truth  he  said,  so  it  was.  Ay ! 


His  Magnificence.  27 

Ivery  day  on  me  two  knees  I  thank  God  for  all 
His  mercies." 

"  Yaas,"  said  Tommy,  "  yaas." 

"  Ay !  Lord  Louth's  the  pleasantest  gentle- 
man," Bessie  rattled  on.  "  Sure,  he  often  comes 
to  see  us.  Ay!  a  rale  gentleman  he  is  —  z.rale 
gentleman  !  He  comes  in  jist  dressed  like  one  av 
ourselves  —  not  a  ring  on  him  or  a  hate  ;  an'  he 
sits  as  'umble  there  before  us,  Mister  Burke,  as 
one's  own  brother.  Ay !  an'  he  '11  take  tay  from 
me  —  Mr.  Burke,  och  !  what  ails  me  ?  Sure,  I 
must  be  dreamin' !  Wid  ye  take  a  cup  o'  tay 
from  me  ?  Sure,  I  '11  make  it  in  no  time  —  now 
do !  I  've  the  finest  butter  an'  crame  — the  best 
in  Irelan' ;  an'  I  '11  whip  ye  up  a  bit  o'  flim  cake 
in  no  time  —  och,  do  ! " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Tommy;  "I  must  be  goin'. 
I  promised  mother  to  be  back  in  an  hour." 

He  fumbled  with  his  hat,  coughed,  and  pre- 
pared to  rise. 

"  Ah,  wait  an'  see  Francy —  ah,  do  ! "  pleaded 
Bessie.  "  Now  he  '11  be  vexed  if  he  does  n't  see 
ye.  He  '11  want  to  show  ye  the  land,  an'  the  cattle, 
an'  iverything.  Well,  you  '11  come  again  —  now 
won't  ye  ?  Sure,  one  likes  to  see  ould  friends. 
Whisht !  here  's  the  childer  home  from  school." 


28  His  Magnificence. 

She  rapped  at  the  window  and  brought  two 
boys  and  a  little  girl  through  the  garden  to  the 
front  door.  "  Come  in,  childer,"  said  she,  "  an' 
see  who 's  here  —  a  whole  live  gentleman  all 
the  way  from  America.  Now,  are  n't  they  fine 
childer,  Mr.  Burke?  Look  at  the  limbs  on 
them,  and  them  that  healthy!  Ay,  indeed! 
An'  sure  the  master  spakes  right  well  o'  their 
doin's  at  school.  Sam  here 's  in  the  third  class 
already,  an'  Bob  there  's  out  o'  the  first  book." 
She  ran  her  fingers  through  her  little  daughter's 
flaxen  hair,  and  stooped  and  kissed  her  rosy 
cheeks.  "  Bell  here  's  the  darlin'  child  —  ivery 
one  likes  her,  don't  they,  Bell  ?  Whisht !  me 
child,  sure,  the  fine  gentleman  won't  hurt  ye  — 
he 's  only  Mr.  Burke  from  America  —  ye  know 
his  mammy,  don't  ye,  that  lives  in  the  wee 
house  over  the  bog  ?  " 

"  Iss,"  answered  Bell ;  "  clatty  ould  Mother 
Burke." 

Bessie  put  her  hand  tenderly  over  the  child's 
mouth,  then  looked  straight  at  Tommy. 

"  Ye  mus'  n't  mind  childer,  Mr.  Burke,"  said 
she.  "  Ye  know  they  pick  up  all  kinds  o'  talk 
at  school.  But  they  're  the  powerful  blessin', 
so  they  are  —  och,  sure,  I  wouldn't  live  widout 


His  Magnificence.  29 

them  !  —  What 's  that,  Sam  ?  Spake  out,  me 
son ! " 

"  I  say,  mother,"  said  Sam  in  an  awed 
whisper,  "what  makes  him  wear  his  Sunday 
clothes  on  a  week-day?" 

"  Ay,  an'  mother,"  chimed  in  Bob,  "  look  at 
the  big  stumuck  av  —  " 

"  Whisht ! "  cried  Bessie,  "  whisht !  where  's 
your  manners  ?  I  'm  fair  'shamed  o'  ye  both, 
so  I  am!" 

Somehow  Tommy  felt  uncomfortable ;  he  rose 
quickly  and  said  he  must  be  going. 

"Well,  if  you're  goin,'  Mr.  Burke,"  said 
Bessie,  as  she  put  out  her  hand,  "  I  suppose  I 
mus'  n't  keep  ye.  Thank  ye,  all  the  same,  for 
comin'  to  see  me  —  sure  it  isn't  every  one  'd 
come  to  see  an'  ould  friend  first  day  home  from 
foreign  parts.  But  you  '11  come  again  soon  an' 
see  Francy  ?  He  '11  be  powerful  glad  to  know 
all  about  that  gran'  house  o'  yours  over  the 
water — he  cares  to  know  more  about  that  kind 
o'  thing  than  I  do.  Sure,  what  'd  the  likes  o' 
me  know  about  such  grandeur  ?  Good-bye, 
Mr.  Burke." 

His  Magnificence  went  down  the  garden 
somewhat  crestfallen ;  somehow  he  felt  that  his 
visit  had  not  been  a  success. 


30  His  Magnificence. 

He  opened  the  gate,  and  whilst  it  was  on  the 
swing  the  voice  of  Sam  the  irrepressible  came 
clear  from  behind. 

"  Mother,"  said  Sam,  "  what  in  glory  does  the 
lad  wear  at  the  end  o'  that  big  brass  chain  ?  " 

His  Magnificence  gave  the  gate  a  vicious 
pull  and  turned  away  in  wrath. 

But  Bessie  pulled  the  children  into  the  hall, 
shut  the  door,  put  her  hands  on  her  hips,  leant 
back  against  the  wall,  and  laughed  till  the  tears 
came. 


They  that  Mourn. 


They  that  Mourn. 


BUKN  MARKET  was  over  its  hurry  and  haggle. 
In  corners  and  quiet  spots  of  the  big  market- 
yard  you  saw  men  and  women  carefully  count- 
ing their  little  stores  of  silver,  testing  the  coins 
with  their  teeth,  knotting  them  firmly  in  red 
pocket-handkerchiefs,  finally  stowing  them  away 
in  their  long,  wide  pockets  as  cautiously  as 
though  every  sixpence  were  a  diamond.  In  the 
streets,  people  were  leisurely  moving  towards 
the  shops,  where  tills  were  rattling  and  counters 
teeming,  and  trade,  for  a  few  hours,  flourishing, 
after  its  whole  six  days  of  blissful  stagnation. 

A  cart  laden  with  butter,  chiefly  in  firkins, 
issued  from  the  market-yard  gate,  a  man  between 
the  shafts,  one  at  either  wheel,  two  pulling  be- 
hind, all  noisily  endeavouring  to  keep  the  cart 
from  running  amuck  downhill  into  the  river. 
Close  behind,  like  chief  mourners  after  a  hearse, 
3 


34  They  that   Mourn. 

one  might  fancy,  came  Tim  Kerin  and  Nan, 
his  wife — a  battered,  slow-footed  couple,  heav- 
ily burdened  with  the  big  load  of  their  years, 
white-haired,  both  of  them,  and  lean  as  gray- 
hounds.  Heavily  they  shuffled  along  in  their 
clumsy  boots  ;  the  man  with  one  arm  across  his 
back,  the  other  swinging  limply;  the  woman 
holding  up  her  skirt  with  one  hand,  and  grip- 
ping with  the  other  the  handle  of  a  big  empty 
basket ;  both  looking  fixedly  over  the  tail-board 
of  the  cart  at  the  few  pounds  of  butter  for 
which  they  had  slaved  hard  for  weeks,  and  for 
which,  after  hours  of  haggling,  they  had  just 
received  a  few  most  precious  shillings.  Fixedly 
they  watched  it,  and  mournfully,  almost,  as 
though  they  were  bidding  it  a  last  farewell. 

They  passed  through  the  gate,  straggled 
across  the  footpath,  and  silently  watched  the 
cart  zigzag  down  the  street,  run  presently  along 
the  kerb,  and,  amid  great  shouting,  discharge 
its  contents  into  the  packing-house. 

"  Faith ! "  said  Tim,  across  his  shoulder, 
"  't  was  cliverly  done.  I  wonder,  some  day, 
they  don't  break  their  necks."  He  wagged 
his  head  dubiously;  Nan  tucked  up  her  skirt; 
the  two  turned  their  faces  uphill,  and  set  out  to 


They  that  Mourn.  35 

share  their  profits  with  the  shops.  The  butter 
was  gone,  and  sorrow  go  with  it !  —  't  was  a 
heartbreak. 

Tim  Kerin's  share  of  the  profits  was  a  shining 
sixpence,  reluctantly  tendered  to  him  by  Nan 
his  wife,  who  now  walked  a  couple  of  steps 
behind  him,  with  eighteenpence  shut  tight  in  her 
hand  and  the  remainder  of  the  butter-money 
(only  a  shilling  or  two)  tied  fast  in  a  cotton 
bag  and  safely  stowed  away  in  the  neck  of  her 
linsey-woolsey  dress.  Threepence  of  Tim's  six- 
pence was  to  buy  tobacco,  a  penny  might  go  in 
the  purchase  of  a  weekly  newspaper,  a  penny 
would  buy  a  pair  of  "  whangs  "  (leather  laces) 
for  his  boots ;  the  penny  remaining,  when  all 
those  luxuries  had  been  honestly  paid  for, 
would  buy  a  whole  tumblerful  of  frothing  porter. 
A  whole  tumblerful !  At  sight  of  it,  with  his 
mind's  eye,  Tim's  lips  dried  and  his  feet  went 
quicker  over  the  cobble-stones. 

Nan's  lips  were  tight,  her  brow  wrinkled. 
She  was  figuring.  It  would  take  her  to  be 
powerful  'cute  to  fill  her  basket  with  the  value 
of  eighteenpence.  Och  !  the  lot  o'  things  she 
wanted :  tea,  sugar,  bacon,  a  herring  for  the 
Sunday's  dinner,  a  bit  o'  white  bread,  and  — 


36  They  that  Mourn. 

and  supposing  there  were  a  penny  or  two  over 
(with  knowing  bargaining  there  might  be),  was 
it  likely  now  that  Mr.  Murphy,  the  draper, 
would  let  her  have  cheap  a  yard  of  narrow 
soiled  lace  to  go  round  the  border  of  her  night- 
caps? Twopence  might  do,  threepence  would 
be  sure  to  — .  Aw,  glory  be  to  goodness  !  did 
anybody  ever  hear  of  such  romancin',  such  ex- 
travagance; sure  it  was  running  wild  her  wits 
were  !  Threepence  for  lace  indeed  ! 

A  friend  stepped  from  behind  a  cart  and 
caught  Nan  by  the  arm.  What,  was  it  pass  a 
neighbour  like  that,  Mrs.  Kerin  would  do?  Pass 
her  ouldest  friend,  M  rs.  Brady,  as  if  she  was  a 
milestone,  and  never  pass  the  time  of  day,  or 
tell  how  she  sold  her  butter,  or  how  the  world 
was  using  herself ! 

"  Och,  och,  Mrs.  Kerin,"  moaned  Mrs.  Brady, 
"  what  have  I  done  to  ye,  at  all,  at  all  ?  " 

Nan  stopped  and  put  out  her  hand,  then 
volubly  began  explaining;  sure,  sorrow  the 
sight  of  Mrs.  Brady  she  had  seen ;  sure,  she 
never  passed  a  neighbour  without  spaking ; 
sure,  't  was  walkin'  along  romancin'  she  was, 
figurin'  in  her  head,  seeing  how  far  she  could 
make  the  few  shillings  go.  "  An'  how  are  you, 


They  that  Mourn.  37 

ma'am  ?  "  asked  Nan,  when  full  pardon  for  her 
oversight  had  been  generously  given  and  grate- 
fully received.  "How  are  you,  an'  all  your 
care?" 

Swiftly  the  two  old  heads  bobbed  together ; 
ceaselessly  their  tongues  began  to  wag ;  freely 
the  full  tide  of  their  softly  drawling  speech 
flowed  gurgling  round  the  little  nothings  of 
their  little  world. 

Meanwhile,  Tim,  his  sixpence  hot  in  his  palm, 
had  taken  a  turn  through  the  throng  of  the 
streets,  had  questioned  his  neighbours  about 
sales  and  prices  (just  as  though  he  were  a  man 
of  stomach  and  capital),  had  spelt  out  the  time 
on  the  big  market-house  clock  as  he  stood  by 
the  town  pump  listening  to  the  hoarse  drone  of 
a  ballad-singer ;  and  now,  on  the  side-walk  of 
Main  Street,  stood  dreamily  looking  through  a 
shop-window  at  a  pile  of  newspapers  which 
stood  precariously  among  an  array  of  tobacco- 
pipes  and  sweet-bottles.  If  he  bought  a  paper, 
Tim  was  thinking,  he  would  have  a  whole 
week's  diversion  o'  nights  ;  if  he  did  n't  buy  it, 
he  would  save  the  price  of  another  tumblerful 
o'  —  A  heavy  hand  fell  on  his  shoulder. 

"Hello!    Tim,"    said    his    neighbour,   Shan 


38  They  that  Mourn. 

Grogan ;  "  havin'  a  wee  squint  at  the  sugar- 
sticks,  is  it  ye  are  ? " 

"  Aw  ay,"  answered  Tim,  turning ;  "  aw  ay  ! 
I  was  just  lookin'  at  the  papers  there,  an'  won- 
derin'  what  an  ojus  lot  o'  news  they  give  us 
nowadays  for  a  penny.  Enough  to  keep  one 
goin'  for  a  week." 

"  Yis,"  said  Shan,  "  it 's  a  wonderful  world. 
But  aisy,  Tim  ;  ha'  ye  been  to  the  Post  lately  ?  " 

"  Naw,"  said  Tim. 

"  Well,  look  in  there  if  you  're  passin,'  me 
son.  The  lassie  that  sells  the  stamps  asked 
me  to  tell  ye.  Gwan  quick ;  mebbe  she  '11  give 
ye  news  for  nothin'." 

"  Now,  now,"  answered  Tim ;  "  I  'm  obliged 
to  ye,  Shan,  I  'm  obliged  to  ye.  Now,  now," 
he  repeated  to  himself,  as  he  shuffled  off  along 
the  pavement ;  "  now,  now.  Is  Shan  havin'  a 
wee  joke,  I  wonder  ? "  he  said,  and,  coming  to 
the  post-office,  doubtfully  sidled  in. 

"  Me  name  is  Kerin,  miss,"  he  said  to  the 
clerk,  very  humbly  as  to  one  of  the  representa- 
tives of  mighty  Government  itself ;  "  Tim,  for 
Christian ;  an'  they  tell  me  ye  'd  mebbe  be 
havin'  somethin'  for  me  ?  " 

The  girl  handed  him  a  letter  bearing  the 


They  that  Mourn.  39 

Chicago  post-mark  stamped  in  one  of  its  bottom 
corners,  and  carrying  its  address  thence  right  up 
to  the  top  of  the  envelope.  Tim  bore  it  ten- 
derly to  the  door  and  carefully  inspected  it, 
then  took  it  back  to  the  counter. 

"Whose  countersign  might  that  be,  miss,  if 
ye  please  ?  "  he  asked,  and  placed  his  thumb  over 
the  post-mark.  Humbly  he  asked ;  curtly  he 
was  answered. 

"Chicago?"  said  Tim.  "Ay,  ay!  I'm 
obliged  to  ye,  miss  —  I  'm  obliged  to  ye.  May 
the  Lord  be  good  to  ye  an'  send  ye  a  duke  for 
a  husband !  Good-day  to  ye,  miss,"  said  he, 
then  stepped  out  into  the  street  with  his  hand 
deep  in  his  pocket  and  the  letter  in  his  hand, 
and  went  off  in  search  of  Nan. 

"  It 's  from  Padeen,"  he  kept  thinking  to 
himself,  as  he  walked  joyfully  along,  his  feet 
clattering  loosely  on  the  pavement,  his  old  face 
turning  here  and  there,  watching  for  his  wife ; 
"  it 's  from  Padeen,  sure  as  ever  was  !  "  Aw  ! 
but  he  was  glad.  Aw  !  but  Nan  would  be  glad. 
So  long  it  was,  ages  and  ages  ago,  since  they 
heard  from  him.  'T  was  n't  Padeen's  hand- 
write —  naw!  but  sure  it  might  have  altered; 
ererything  altered  in  the  Big  Country.  Ay ! 


40  They  that   Mourn. 

'twas  only  poor  ould  Ireland  that  kept  the  same 
—  never  any  worse,  never  any  better.  But 
where  was  Nan  ?  Sure,  she  ought  to  be  in  the 
shops.  He  was  dying  to  find  her.  Up  and 
down  he  went ;  at  last  found  her,  still  bobbing 
heads  at  the  top  of  Bridge  Street  with  her 
friend,  Mrs.  Brady. 

"  Aw,  it 's  here  ye  are,  Nan  ?  "  he  said,  com- 
ing up.  "An'  me  huntin'  the  town  for  ye. 
It 's  yourself  is  well,  Mrs.  Brady,  I  'm  hopin'  ? 
That 's  right,  that 's  right." 

His  voice  came  strangely  broken  and  shrill ; 
his  eyes  danced  like  a  child's;  still  his  hand 
gripped  the  letter  in  his  pocket. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Tim  ?  "  whispered  Nan. 
"  Ha'  ye  heard  news  ?  " 

"Ay,  ay,"  he  said.  "Come  away  till  I  tell 
ye ;  come  away." 

He  turned,  and,  with  Nan  at  his  heels,  set  off 
almost  at  a  run  down-hill  towards  the  river. 
Aw,  but  his  heart  was  thumpin' !  "  Aisy,  Tim," 
cried  Nan,  behind  him ;  "  aisy,  man,  or  me 
breath  —  me  breath  —  " 

Without  answering,  or  slackening  his  pace, 
Tim  went  on,  turned  through  the  butter-market 
gate,  crossed  the  empty  yard,  came  to  the 


They  that  Mourn.  41 

furthermost  corner  of  one  of  the  long,  low  sheds, 
and  there  halted,  with  his  face  to  the  wall.  Aw  ! 
but  his  heart  was  thumpin'.  Presently,  Nan 
came  to  him,  panting  and  flurried. 

"  What  is  it,  Tim  ?  "  she  asked  ;  "  what  is 
it?  " 

Slowly  Tim  brought  out  his  letter,  and,  hold- 
ing it  by  both  hands,  let  his  wife  look  at  it. 

"  It 's  —  it 's  from  Padeen  !  "  cried  she  ;  "  it 's 
from  Padeen ! " 

"  Yis,"  said  Tim.  "  It 's  not  his  hand-write, 
but  it  must  be  from  him." 

"  Aw,  glory  be  to  God  !  "  cried  Nan.  "  Glory 
to  God!  Sure,  it's  ages  since  we  heard  from 
the  boy,  ages !  " 

She  put  down  her  basket,  and,  with  her  head 
between  Tim's  shoulder  and  the  wall,  looked 
fixedly  at  the  envelope.  Aw  !  but  she  was  glad 
to  see  it.  Such  a  time  it  was  since  they  had 
heard  from  Padeen  !  A  whole  two  years  it  was, 
come  Christmas,  since  the  last  letter  came,  with 
that  money-order  in  it,  an'  the  beautiful  picture 
of  Padeen  himself,  dressed  out  in  his  grand 
clothes,  with  a  gold  chain  across  his  waistcoat, 
and  a  gold  ring  on  his  finger.  A  whole  two 
years  almost.  And  now  maybe  —  ? 


42  They  that  Mourn. 

a  Aw,  Tim,  open  it  quick,"  she  panted ; 
"  open  it  quick  !  " 

"  Mebbe,"  said  Tim,  "  we  'd  better  wait  till 
we  get  home.  The  light's  bad, an'  —  " 

"  No,  no,  Tim ;  no,  no ;  it  'd  kill  me  to 
wait." 

"  Ay  ?  "  said  Tim,  then  slowly  drew  his  knife 
from  his  pocket  and  tenderly  cut  open  the  top 
of  the  envelope.  His  fingers  trembled  greatly 
as  he  fumbled  with  the  enclosure.  Nan's  hand 
went  quick  to  her  heart. 

"  Aw,  quick,  Tim  !  "  she  cried.  "  Quick, 
quick ! " 

"  Don't  —  don't  flooster  me,  woman,"  said 
Tim.  "  I  can't  —  can't  —  "  The  next  moment 
his  shaking  old  fingers  held  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper,  and  a  black-edged  card  on  which  glared 
out  a  long  silvern  cross,  and  beneath  it,  in  large 
letters,  the  words :  PATRICK  KERIN. 

Nan  fell  back  a  step  ;  her  fingers  clutched  at 
her  dress  over  her  heart.  Tim's  knife  clattered 
upon  the  stones,  and  the  envelope  fluttered 
down.  For  a  while  they  stood  there  silent, 
dread-stricken.  At  last  Nan  spoke. 

"  Read,  Tim,"  she  said.    "  Read ! " 

"  I  —  I  can't." 


They  that  Mourn.  43 

"Ye  must,  Tim;  it's  better.  Let  us  know 
the  worst,  for  God's  sake  !  " 

"I  —  I  —  "  Tim  began ;  then  quickly 
opened  the  sheet.  "  It 's  —  it 's  too  dark 
here,"  he  mumbled.  "I  —  I  want  me  specs." 

"  Read  what  ye  can,  Tim,  an'  quick,  for  God's 
sake ! " 

So  Tim,  still  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  raised 
the  letter  to  catch  the  light,  and  began  to 
read  — 

Chicago  City,  U.  S.  A. 

DEAR  —  DEAR  MISTER  KERIN  —  It  is  my  —  my 
sad  duty  to  in-form  you  that  your  son  Patrick  died 
["  Aw,  Padeen,  Padeen !  "]  ofty  —  typhus  here  on  the 
2nd  of  this  month  at  twelve  o'clock  a.  m.  ["  God's 
mercy ! "  cried  Nan.]  As  his  oldest  friend,  I  was 
with  him  at  the  end.  He  died  in  peace.  He  was 

buried,  at  his  request,  in Cemetery.    I  —  /  send 

you  something  to  —  to  keep.  .  .  . 

"  Aw,  I  can  read  no  more,"  said  Tim  with  a 
groan;  "it's  too  dark.  I  can  read  no  more. 
Me  poor  ould  Padeen !  " 

Nan  turned  and  looked  vacantly  across  at  the 
busy  street,  dry-eyed  and  gray-faced.  Ah  !  her 
poor  Padeen,  dead  and  buried  away  among  the 
strangers,  dead  and  buried,  and  never,  never 


44  They  that  Mourn. 

would  she  see  him  again,  never  hear  his  voice, 
never  grip  his  hand  !  Dead,  dead !  her  big, 
handsome,  noble  son.  .  .  . 

She  turned  to  Tim  and  caught  him  by  the 
sleeve. 

"  Come  away,  Tim,"  she  said.  "  Come  away 
wi'  me." 

"  Aw  !  Nan,  Nan,"  he  said,  as  the  big  tears 
sprang  to  his  eyes.  "  Nan,  me  girl,  but  it 's 
hard !  " 

"Aw,  yis,"  said  she,  and  lifted  her  basket; 
"  but  come  away,  Tim,  come  away.  Home  's 
the  best  place  for  us." 

"  Yis,"  said  Tim,  wiping  his  eyes  with  his 
hand.  "  Yis,  Nan ;  "  then,  Nan  leading  the 
way,  and  Tim  shuffling  after,  the  two  old 
people  (mourners  now  in  real  earnest)  crossed 
the  yard;  and  at  the  gate  Nan  halted. 

"  I  think,"  said  she,  as  Tim  came  up,  "  I 
think  we  can  manage  this  week  wi'out  the  bits 
o'  groceries.  Sure,  they  're  only  luxuries,  any- 
way. I  '11  go  an'  see  if  Mr.  Murphy  can  find 
me  a  bit  o'  crape  for  me  bonnet." 

"  Do,"  said  Tim.  "  Do,  Nan  ;  an'  when 
you're  about  it,"  he  said,  taking  his  sixpence 
from  his  pocket  and  handing  it  to  her,  "  ye  may 


They  that  Mourn.  45 

as  well  get  me  a  bit  for  me  hat.  Ay !  sure  I 
can  do  wi'out  me  tabaccy  for  one  week.  Aw, 
yis!  Away  quick,  Nan;  an'  hurry  back,  me 
girl." 

So  Nan  turned  up  towards  the  market-house  ; 
but  Tim  went  down-hill  towards  the  bridge ; 
and  when,  presently,  Nan  came  to  him,  carry- 
ing her  little  packet  of  crape  in  her  big  basket, 
Tim's  head  was  bowed  over  the  parapet,  and 
he  was  mumbling  tearfully.  "  Aw,  me  poor 
Padeen ! " 

Nan  plucked  at  his  sleeve. 

"  Come  away  home,  Tim,"  she  said,  "  come 
away."  And  at  the  word  Tim  raised  his  head, 
dried  his  eyes,  and  set  off  slowly  after  Nan  up 
the  long  dusty  road  that  wearily  led  towards 
home. 


The  Rival  Swains. 


The   Rival   Swains. 


WE  left  the  Bunn  Road,  turned  down-hill  to- 
wards Curleck,  passed  a  great,  stone-walled 
farmhouse  set  nakedly  on  the  hill-side,  whirled 
through  a  little  oak  plantation  and  across  a 
single-arched  bridge  ;  then  suddenly  came  to  a 
stretch  of  level  sandy  road  with  broad  grass 
margins  on  either  hand  and  willow  hedges,  and, 
beyond  these,  low-lying  tracts  of  pasture  and 
meadow-land  that  ran  on  the  one  side  along 
Thrasna  River,  and  extended  on  the  other  back 
to  the  shores  of  Clackan  Lough. 

A  beautiful  country  it  is  just  there,  half  way 
from  the  Stonegate  to  Curleck  woods,  well- 
wooded  and  watered,  green  and  smiling,  with 
white  farmhouses  scattered  plentifully  over  its 
face,  and  dark  patches  of  crop-land  here  and 
there  between  the  hedges,  and  round  all,  dim 
and  blue,  the  mighty  ring  of  giant  mountains. 
4 


5O  The  Rival  Swains. 

But,  like  a  true  son  of  the  soil  and  owner  of  a 
high-stepping  horse,  my  friend  James  Hicks  had 
more  eye  for  the  road  and  its  ruts  than  for  the 
hills  and  their  beauties ;  nor  would  he  allow 
many  words  of  mine  in  praise  of  the  natural 
beauties  of  the  land  to  sift  through  his  rustic 
mind  unrebuked.  No !  to  blazes  with  beauty 
and  colour  and  the  rest !  What  cared  he  for 
such  foolery?  It  was  the  soil  he  valued,  the 
hard,  practical  soil,  Sir,  not  the  frippery  that 
spoilt  the  face  of  it. 

"  Fine,  ye  call  it !  "  he  said,  and  pointed  dis- 
dainfully with  his  whip  at  the  big  rushy  fields 
beyond  the  hedge.  "  I  wish  to  glory  ye  saw  me 
stick  a  spade  half  a  foot  into  the  skin  of  it. 
Water  an'  clay,  that 's  what  ye  'd  find,  an'  grass 
growin'  on  it  that  'd  cut  ye  like  razors.  Ay  !  I 
know  it.  An'  sure  there  's  good  reason  for  it 
bein'  so.  Ye  see  Thrasna  River  over  there  ?  " 
said  he,  and  pointed  to  the  right  with  his  whip. 
"  An'  ye  see  Clackan  Lough  over  there  ?  "  and 
he  wagged  his  head  to  the  left.  "  An'  ye  re- 
marked that  little  stream  we  crossed  back  there, 
wi'  the  bridge  over  it  ?  Well,  if  ye  look  hard  at 
them  they  '11  tell  their  own  story.  Suppose  the 
sky  opened  there  above  your  head  and  spouted 


The  Rival  Swains.  51 

rain  for  six  whole  days  at  a  time,  what  'd  happen  ? 
Eh  ?  I  '11  tell  ye.  The  mountains  there  beyond  'd 
send  the  water  roarin'  down  upon  us ;  the  lakes 
above  in  Cavan  'd  swell  an'  come  slap  at  us ;  the 
hills  there  'd  do  their  duty ;  an'  then  up  rises  the 
river,  an'  the  lake,  over  comes  the  water  wi'  a 
jump,  an'  when  you  'd  be  eatin'  your  supper 
there 's  a  lake  spread  between  the  hills,  an'  a 
canal  three  feet  deep  runnin'  here  over  the  road 
between  the  hedges.  Yes,  aw  I  know  it !  That  V 
the  time  to  see  how  beautiful  the  country  looks  ! 
That^s  the  time  to  make  the  farmers  kick  their 
heels  wi'  joy,  wi'  their  hay  in  wisps,  an'  their 
turf  in  mud,  and  their  potatoes  maybe  swamped  ! 
How  comfortable  ye  'd  feel,  now,  if  ye  wanted 
to  get  to  Curleck,  an'  ye  had  no  friend  to  drive 
ye,  an'  the  water  was  as  deep  as  your  chin  on 
the  road,  an'  —  Aw  dear,  oh  dear!"  James 
cried  suddenly,  and  slapped  his  knee ;  then,  in 
true  Irish  fashion,  changed  his  tune  quick  from 
dolour  to  laughter.  "  Aw  dear,  oh  dear  !  to  think 
o'  that  story  comin'  into  me  head  all  at  once ! 
Sure  it 's  wonderful  the  quare  tricks  one's  brain- 
box  plays  one.  The  quarest  thing  it  was  hap- 
pened along  this  very  road,  Sir,  one  winter's 
night  when  the  floods  were  up.  But  maybe  ye 


52  The  Rival  Swains. 

know  the  story  o'  George  Lunny's  stilts,  an' 
what  came  o'  them  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head.  So  James  leant  his  elbow 
on  the  cushion  of  the  car-well,  crossed  his  legs, 
and  having  worked  his  horse  into  a  steady  trot, 
went  on  with  his  story. 

"  'T  was  a  good  many  years  ago  that  the  thing 
happened,  an'  't  was  in  the  same  winter  that  the 
big  wind  blew  the  roof  off  the  hay-shed  above 
at  Emo.  Powerful  the  flood  was  at  that  time, 
an'  four  feet  deep  it  lay  on  this  very  road ;  so 
that  if  ye  wanted  to  get  to  Curleck  an'  had  n't  a 
boat,  an'  had  n't  time  to  get  round  the  lake  there, 
ye  had  to  take  your  life  in  your  fist,  tuck  up 
your  coat-tails,  an'  wi'  the  tops  o'  the  hedges  to 
guide  ye,  just  wade  for  it.  Faith  !  't  was  a  funny 
sight  o'  market-days  to  see  the  ould  women 
comin'  along  here  on  their  asses'  carts  wi'  their 
skirts  over  their  ears,  an'  the  water  squirtin'  out 
below  the  tail-board,  an'  the  unfortunate  baste 
of  an  ass  trudgin'  unconcernedly  through  it  all 
wi'  its  head  an'  ears  showin'  above  the  water ; 
an'  a  funnier  sight  't  was  at  times  to  see  George 
Lunny  an'  the  rest  comin'  through  it  on  their 
stilts.  Like  ghosts  they  'd  seem  o'  times,  when 
dusk  was  comin' ;  if  a  wind  was  blowin',  ye  'd 


The  Rival  Swains.  53 

think  they  were  drunk,  that  wobbly  they  'd  be ; 
an'  at  the  deep  parts,  be  the  King !  but  it 's 
miracles  ye  'd  think  they  'd  be  at  an'  walkin'  on 
the  water.  Anyway,  it 's  about  George  I  must 
tell  ye. 

"He  used  to  work  below  in  the  gardens  at 
Lord  Louth's  —  a  middle-sized,  good-natured 
kind  o'  fellow,  harmless  enough,  an'  powerful 
good  to  the  widow  mother  at  home.  An'  o' 
course  he  has  a  wee  girl  to  go  courtin' ;  an'  o' 
course  there 's  another  man  that 's  sweet  on  her 
too  ;  an'  o'  course  she  lived  that  side  o'  the  flood 
—  ye  '11  see  the  house  shortly  when  we  get  to  the 
woods  —  an'  they  lived  this.  So  ye  '11  see  that 
what  wi'  crossin'  the  flood  o'  nights  to  see  her, 
an'  the  trifle  o'  jealousy  between  themselves, 
they  had  enough  to  keep  them  alive  through 
that  winter. 

"  Well,  one  night  when  George  had  had  his 
supper,  an'  a  wash  an'  shave,  he  takes  his  stilts 
across  his  shoulder  and  sets  out  to  see  the  wee 
girl,  Bessie  Bredin  by  name.  'T  was  a  fine 
frosty  night,  wi'  a  three-quarter  moon  shinin', 
an'  when  George  gets  to  the  edge  o'  the  flood 
there  behind  at  the  bridge,  who  should  he  see 
but  th'  other  fellow  sittin'  on  the  copin'  stones. 


54  The  Rival  Swains. 

"  '  Aw  !  good  evenin',  David '  (that  bein'  the 
rival's  name),  says  George,  restin'  his  stilts 
against  the  bridge-wall  an  pullin'  out  his  pipe. 
'  It 's  a  fine  night  now.' 

" '  It  is  so,  George,'  answers  David,  not 
speakin'  too  friendly-like,  still,  without  any  ill- 
will,  for  so  far  it  was  a  fair  race  between  the 
two.  '  It  is  so.' 

"  '  It 's  a  cowld  seat  ye  've  got  there  this  frosty 
night,  David,'  says  George,  strikin'  a  match. 

" '  Aw,  it  is,'  answers  David.  '  I  jist  daundered 
down  to  look  at  the  wild  ducks  on  the  wing,  an 
smoke  me  pipe.' 

" '  Ye  had  n't  a  notion  to  cross  the  flood  now, 
David  ?  '  asks  George,  in  his  sly  way. 

" '  Aw,  no,'  says  David.     '  Aw  !  not  at  all.' 

" '  Ay  ? '  says  George,  catchin'  hold  o'  his 
stilts.  '  Well,  I  'm  goin'  that  direction  for  an 
hour  or  so.  Anythin'  I  can  do  for  ye  ? ' 

"  '  Ah,  no,  George,'  says  David.  '  Ah,  no,  'cept 
I  'm  sorry  I  couldn't  —  Well,  to  tell  truth,  I  -was 
thinkin'  o'  goin'  down  Curleck  way  the  night. 
Only  Jan  Farmer,  bad  luck  take  him  !  has  gone 
off  wi'  the  cot  after  the  ducks,  and  I  can't  cross.' 

" '  Aw,'  says  George,  that  sleek  an'  pitiful, 
'  that 's  bad  —  that 's  bad.  An'  ye  Ve  no  stilts  or 


The  Rival  Swains.  55 

anythin'?  Och,  och,  man  alive!  what  were  ye 
thinkin*  of  ?  An'  sure  't  would  be  an  ojus  pity  to 
wet  them  new  Sunday  trousers  o'  yours.  But, 
tell  ye  what,  David,  I  Ve  a  broad  back  on  me,  an' 
a  stout  pair  o'  legs,  an'  the  stilts  there  'd  carry  a 
ton  weight  —  get  on  me  back,  an'  I  '11  carry  ye 
over.' 

"Well,  at  that  David  hummed  an'  ha'd  a 
while,  an'  objected  this  an'  that :  he  did  n't  care 
whether  he  went  or  not;  he  was  bigger  an' 
weightier  than  George  (which  was  true,  but  not 
over-weighty  for  a  big  lump  o'  a  man  like  George), 
an'  might  strain  his  back ;  they  might  trip  over 
a  rut  or  a  stone.  An'  George  just  listened 
quietly  to  it  all  an'  threw  in  an  odd  remark  in  a 
careless  kind  o'  way,  knowin'  well  enough  that 
David  was  dyin'  to  go,  an'  that  't  was  only  fear 
of  his  skin  that  hindered  him.  At  last  up  George 
gets  on  the  stilts,  an'  says  he  — 

"  '  Well,  David,  me  son,  good-bye ;  I  'm  sorry 
I  can't  stay  longer  wi'  ye,  but  I  'm  expectin'  to 
see  some  one  about  eight  o'clock.  Good-night, 
David,  an'  take  care  o'  yourself.'  An'  at  the 
word  up  gets  David  from  the  wall  an'  takes  a 
grip  o'  George's  trousers. 

" '  Aisy,'  says  he ;  '  aisy,  I  '11  go.' 


56  The   Rival   Swains. 

"  So  George  gets  alongside  the  bridge- wall, 
an'  David  mounts  it  an'  scrambles  on  to  George's 
back ;  an'  off  the  caravan  sets  through  tli2  flood. 

"  Well,  Sir,  there  begins  the  game ;  for  George 
was  a  masterpiece  on  the  stilts,  an'  held  the  whip 
hand,  and  David,  as  the  water  got  closer  and 
closer  to  his  feet,  only  shivered  more  an'  more, 
an'  gripped  George  the  tighter.  First  George  'd 
wobble  this  side,  an'  David 'd  shout  '  Murther •.' '> 
Then  George  'd  wobble  that  side,  an'  David  'd 
roar  '•Meila  murtherf  Then  George 'd  splash 
a  drop  o'  frosty  water  round  David's  ankles  an' 
set  him  shiverin' ;  then  he  'd  turn  his  face  round 
an'  say, '  Aw,  David,  David,  me  strength  'sgoin', ' 
an'  lek  a  shaved  monkey  David  'd  shiver  on  his 
back  an'  chatter  wi'  his  teeth.  At  last,  about 
half-way  through,  George,  whether  from  pure 
divilment  or  spite,  I  know  not  —  for  afterwards 
he  'd  never  say  —  gives  a  quick  lurch  on  the 
stilts,  jerks  his  shoulders,  an'  off  David  goes 
into  the  water  —  slap  in  he  goes,  wi'  a  roar  like 
a  bull,  flounders  awhile,  then  rises  splutterin', 
rubs  his  eyes,  an'  sets  off  like  a  grampus  helter- 
skelter  after  George.  Whiroo  !  there  's  where 
the  scene  was,  an'  the  Whillaloo,  an'  the 
splashin' an' swearin';  but  at  last  George  gets 


The   Rival  Swains.  57 

to  dry  land,  drops  the  stilts,  an'  as  hard  as  he 
could  pelt  makes  for  the  girl's  house.  An'  after 
him,  wi'  the  water  streamin'  from  him  like  a 
retriever,  goes  David  as  wet  as  a  fish,  an'  as 
mad  as  twenty  hatters.  '  Aw !  may  the  divil 
send  that  I  get  me  hands  on  ye,'  he  'd  shout, 
'  till  I  pull  the  wizen  out  o'  ye  ! '  An'  away  in 
front  George  'd  laugh  an'  shout  back,  '  Aw, 
David,  David,  spare  me,  spare  me  !  'T  was  all 
an  accident.'  So  like  that  they  went  on  along 
this  very  road  up  the  Round  Hill  there,  down 
through  the  woods  below,  an'  up  the  lane  to  the 
girl's  house. 

"  I  happened  that  night  to  be  makin'  a  kaley 
in  Bredin's  kitchen  —  in  troth,  I  may  say  at  once 
that  if  Bessie,  the  daughter,  had  looked  kindly 
on  meself  instead  o'  George  or  David,  I  'd  have 
jumped  in  me  boots  —  an'  was  sittin'  in  the 
corner  holdin'  discourse  wi'  Bredin  himself,  when 
the  door  clatters  open  an'  in  comes  George 
pantin'  an'  blowin'. 

"  '  Aw,  aw ! '  says  he,  droppin'  into  a  chair  an' 
tryin'  to  laugh,  '  I  '11  be  kilt  —  I  '11  be  kilt !  Big 
Davy's  after  me  roarin'  vengeance.  I  —  I  — ' 
then,  as  well  as  he  could,  told  us  what  had  hap- 
pened. *  Here  he  comes,'  says  George,  risin'  to 


58  The  Rival  Swains. 

his  feet ;  an'  wi'  that  the  door  flings  open  an'  in 
comes  Big  David  —  the  woefullest  object  ye  iver 
clapped  eyes  on,  wi'  his  hair  in  his  eyes,  an'  his 
clothes  dreepin',  an'  his  face  blue  as  a  blue-bag. 
He  dunders  into  the  kitchen,  looks  at  George, 
then  wi'  a  shout  makes  for  him.  '  Aw,  ye  whelp 
ye  ! '  shouts  he,  '  I  Ve  got  ye' ;  but  at  that  Bredin 
runs,  an'  the  wife  runs,  an'  I  run,  an'  between 
us  all  keep  the  two  asunder.  An'  all  the  time 
Davy  keeps  roarin'  an'  strugglin'  an'  George 
standin'  by  the  fire  keeps  sayin' :  '  Aw,  Davy, 
Davy,  't  was  only  an  accident ! ' 

"Well,  Sir,  after  a  while  we  got  David 
calmed  down  a  bit,  an'  made  him  promise  to  be 
quiet ;  then  away  up  stairs  he  goes  an'  soon 
comes  down  decked  out  in  Bredin's  Sunday 
clothes,  and  sits  him  down  by  the  fire,  wi'  Bredin 
an'  myself  between  him  an'  George.  Faith ! 
't  was  a  curious  sight  to  see  the  pair  o'  them : 
David  glowerin'  across  the  hearthstone  wi'  his 
hands  spread  out  to  the  blaze,  an'  George  wi' 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  kettle,  hardly  knowin' 
whether  to  laugh  or  grin.  Aw !  but  soon  the 
laugh  was  th'  other  side  o'  his  face ;  for  what 
d'ye  think  but  Bessie,  though  every  one  knew 
she  was  fondest  o'  George  an'  was  nearly  prom- 


The  Rival  Swains.  59 

ised  to  him,  gave  him  the  back  o'  her  hand  that 
night  an'  was  like  honey  itself  to  David  !  Troth, 
't  was  wonderful !  But,  sure,  women  are  the 
curious  mortals,  any  way.  Ay  !  any  one  that  has 
a  wife  knows  it  well.  All  the  fuss  she  made  o' 
him  !  'T  was  '  David,  are  ye  this  ? '  an'  '  David^ 
are  ye  that  ? '  an' '  David,  wid  ye  like  a  hot  cup 
o'  tea  ? '  till  ye  'd  think  a'most  't  was  a  child  o' 
six  she  was  sootherin'.  Down  she  brings  the 
big  arm-chair  from  the  parlour  an'  sits  him  in  it ; 
nothin  '11  do  her  but  he  must  ha'  a  glass  o'  hot 
punch  at  his  elbow  ;  here  she  was  always  turnin' 
an'  twistin'  his  wet  clothes  before  the  fire,  an' 
not  a  glance  would  she  give  poor  George  at  all, 
sittin'  mum  wi'  his  toes  in  the  ashes.  Och  !  not 
one.  An'  David,  seein'  how  things  were,  could 
hardly  keep  from  shoutin'  he  was  that  proud ; 
an'  every  now  an'  again  he  'd  look  slyly  at  George 
as  much  as  to  say:  'Ye've  done  for  yourself, 
me  son,  this  time,  an'  dang  your  eyes !  but  it 
serves  ye  right.'  An'  George 'd  squirm  on  his 
stool  an'  bite  at  the  shank  o'  his  pipe ;  at  last,  up 
he  rises,  throws  a  dark  look  at  Bessie,  gives  us 
a  surly  Good  night,  an'  bangs  the  door  behind 
him.  '  Aw*  good  night,  George  ! '  shouts  David 
after  him,  '  an'  don't  forget  your  stilts,  me  son, 


60  The  Rival  Swains 

next  time  ye  come  courtin' '  —  at  which  Bredin 
laughs,  an'  the  wife,  an'  Bessie  herself ;  but  for 
me,  I  shut  me  lips,  for  never  did  I  like  that 
David,  an'  'twas  a  wonder  to  me  what  was 
possessin'  Bessie  that  night. 

"  But  the  next  day  't  was  much  the  same, 
an'  the  next ;  an'  by  the  followin'  Sunday  'twas 
round  the  country  that  David  was  the  boy  for 
Bessie  Bredin,  as  sure  as  gun  was  iron.  An' 
faith,  it  seemed  so ;  for  if  ye  met  David  on  the 
road  he  had  his  head  as  high  as  Napoleon,  an' 
if  ye  met  George  he  looked  like  a  plucked 
goose ;  an'  if  ye  saw  one  pass  the  other,  't  was 
a  black  sneer  David  had  on  his  face,  an'  George 
'd  look  same  as  if  he  was  walkin'  to  the  gallows. 
Bitter  enemies  they  were  now  —  bitter  enemies 
for  all  that  George  said  little,  an'  David  gave 
out  he  did  n't  care  a  tinker's  curse,  an'  niver 
did,  for  all  the  Georges  in  Ireland  —  not  if  he 
was  George  the  Fifth  himself. 

"  Well,  things  went  on  like  that  for  a  while ; 
an'  at  last,  one  fair  day  in  Bunn,  our  two  boys 
were  brought  together  by  some  friends,  meself 
among  them,  an'  over  a  quiet  glass  in  the 
Diamond  Hotel  we  strove  to  make  them  forget 
an'  forgive.  Let  the  girl  choose  for  herself, 


The  Rival  Swains.  61 

said  we,  an'  let  the  best  man  win.  But  sorrow 
a  bit  would  they  shake  hands  —  no,  Sir.  David 
stood  there  in  his  high  an'  mightiness,  an' 
George  hung  back  glowerin'  ;  an'  at  last,  over 
a  hot  word  that  fell,  George  struck  David. 
Wheiv-w !  'twas  a  fair  shaloo  in  two  seconds; 
ye  'd  think  the  house  was  comin'  down  ;  but  we 
all  got  between  them,  an'  at  last  got  them  quiet 
on  the  understandin'  that  they  were  to  fight  it 
out  fair  an'  square  on  Cluny  Island  the  followin* 
Saturday  evenin'.  '  All  right ! '  shouts  David, 
an'  whacks  the  table,  'all  right,  me  sons  —  an' 
bring  your  coffin,'  he  says  to  George  as  our 
party  left  the  room  ;  '  bring  your  coffin  ! ' 

"  Well,  Sir,  Saturday  evenin'  came,  an'  over 
we  all  went  to  Cluny  Island,  George  an'  his 
party  in  one  cot,  an'  David  and  his  in  another. 
All  roarin'  David  was  wi'  joy,  an'  I  'm  thinkin' 
that  maybe  there  was  a  drop  o'  drink  some- 
where near  him  ;  but  George  was  quiet  enough 
an'  never  said  a  word  all  the  way  over,  an'  up 
through  the  woods  till  we  came  to  the  ould 
cock-pit  on  top  o'  the  hill.  An'  there  me  two 
heroes  strip  an'  face  each  other. 

"  'T  was  a  good  fight,  Sir,  as  good  as  ever 
happened  in  these  parts ;  an'  a  pluckier  battle 


62  The  Rival  Swains. 

than  George  fought  I  never  seen.  No !  nor 
never  will.  He  was  a  light  man  in  those  days, 
an'  not  over  tall,  an'  David  was  like  the  side 
o'  a  house,  sturdy  an'  strong  as  an  ox;  but 
George  faced  his  man  as  if  he  was  only  five  fut 
nothin'.  An',  by  jing !  if  we  did  n't  think  at 
first  he  was  goin'  to  win,  that  nimble  he  was  an' 
quick,  that  watchful  an'  'cute,  an'  hard  in  the 
blow,  too,  sometimes.  Yes,  he  hammered  David 
for  long  enough.  But  never  tell  me,  Sir,  that 
your  race-horse  '11  beat  your  fourteen-stone 
hunter  over  a  ten-miles'  course.  Aw  !  not  at 
all.  Ye  may  practise  your  nimbleness  on  a 
stone  wall  as  long  as  ye  like,  but  is  n't  it  the 
wall  has  the  laugh  in  the  end  ?  Ah !  of 
course.  An'  so  it  was  wi'  George.  After  a 
while  he  gets  a  bit  tired ;  then  loose  in  his 
guard;  then  hard  in  his  breath  —  then,  Sir, 
David  lets  fly  right  an'  left  like  a  flail  on  a 
barn  floor  an'  in  ten  minutes,  Sir,  he  had  George 
standin'  before  him  as  limp  as  a  rag  an'  as 
broken  a  man  as  ye  ever  seen.  '  Are  ye  done  ?  ' 
shouts  David  at  that.  '  Are  ye  ready  for  your 
coffin?'  'No!'  answers  George,  an'  tries  to 
rally ;  '  not  till  ye  kill  me  ! '  '  Then  here  goes, 
an'  be  danged  to  ye''  roars  David;  wi'  that 


The  Rival  Swains.  63 

rushes  in  like  a  tornado,  hits  out,  an'  down  goes 
George  like  an  empty  sack. 

" '  Now,'  says  David  again,  foldin'  his  arms 
an'  throwin'  back  his  shoulders,  '  now,  coffin  or 
no  coffin,  you  're  done,  me  divil !  Eh  ? '  says 
he,  turnin'  to  his  party  wi'  a  laugh.  '  Eh,  boys  ? 
there 's  hope  for  Ireland  yet ! '  Back  comes 
the  skirl ;  an'  just  as  we  were  goin'  to  give  them 
defiance  I  hears  a  swish  o'  skirts,  an'  there, 
stoopin'  over  George,  is  Bessie  Bredin. 

"  As  pale  as  death  she  was ;  an'  at  sight  of 
her,  David,  like  the  rest  of  us,  stands  back. 
Down  she  goes  on  her  knees,  lifts  George's 
head,  tells  one  o'  us  to  get  water ;  then  bathes 
his  face  an'  neck  wi'  it,  an'  like  that  stays  till  he 
comes  to  an'  is  able  to  stand  up.  Then  she 
helps  him  into  his  coat  an'  waistcoat,  puts  his 
cap  on,  an'  turns  to  where  David  was  standin* 
back  glowerin'  from  under  his  eyebrows. 

" '  Ah,'  says  she,  '  ye  big,  cowardly  bully ! 
Ye  dare  n't  fight  your  match.  No !  Ye  'd 
rather  lay  your  dirty  hands  where  ye  know 
they  'd  hurt.  It 's  a  wonder  't  was  n't  myself  ye 
challenged.  D'  ye  know  what  he  did,  boys  ?  ' 
says  she,  turnin'  to  us  all.  'He  creeps  up  the 
lane  to  see  me  last  night,  an'  comes  rubbin'  his 


64  The  Rival  Swains. 

big  hands  into  the  kitchen,  an'  he  whispers  in 
my  ear :  "If  ye  want  to  see  me  fit  a  corpse  to  a 
coffin,"  he  says,  "  be  in  Cluny  Island  the  morrow 
evenin'  about  dusk."  Yes,  that 's  what  ye  said, 
an'  ye  made  sure  I  'd  be  here  too  late  —  ye  big, 
black,  cowardly  liar,  ye  !  Go  home,'  she  says, 
pointin'  at  him  wi'  her  finger,  an'  speakin'  as 
one  would  to  a  tinker.  '  Go  home  an'  marry  a 
beggarwoman  ! '  says  she  ;  '  maybe  she  '11  teach 
ye  manners  an'  soften  the  heart  in  ye.' 

"  Then  she  turned  to  George. 

"'Come  away,  George,'  says  she,  an'  takes 
his  arm ;  '  come  away,  me  son  ;  an'  God  forgive 
me  for  bringin'  ye  to  this  ! ' ' 


They  Twain. 


They   Twain, 


i 

AT  the  top  of  the  table,  facing  the  parlour  win- 
dow, and  with  his  head  (as  he  leant  back  in  his 
chair)  right  beneath  the  weights  of  a  clattering 
Dutch  clock,  sat  Hugh  Fallen,  a  well-aged, 
solemn-faced  man  ;  on  his  right,  wedged  between 
the  best  china  cupboard  and  a  corner  of  the 
table,  sat  Maria,  his  wife  ;  on  his  left,  Hannah, 
his  second  daughter.  These  made  the  Fallen 
party. 

Facing  Hugh,  his  feet  tapping  impatiently  on 
the  clay  floor,  his  chair  tilted  back  and  threaten- 
ing every  moment  to  work  havoc  among  the 
geraniums  in  the  window-recess  behind,  was 
Martin  Hynes,  well-dressed,  handsome,  a  man 
of  about  thirty  years.  He  was  the  other  party  ; 
and  between  the  two,  before  the  fire  and  below  a 
resplendent  portrait  of  William  III.  (hanging 


68  They  Twain. 

precariously,  so  it  seemed,  over  the  china  orna- 
ments on  the  mantel-piece),  was  that  man  of 
words  and  wit,  Fallen's  brother-in-law,  Big  Ned 
Nolan.  Him  we  may  call  the  intermediary. 

"Well,"  suddenly  cried  Hynes ;  "what  are 
we  waitin'  for  ?  Why  can't  we  start  at  once  ?  " 

"  True,"  answered  Fallen;  "we  may  as  well 
get  the  thing  over,  there  's  nothin'  to  hinder  us 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Aisy"  said  Big  Ned,  and  spread  his  hands. 
"Aisy  now.  Mebbe  it's  <?#reg'lar,  an'  mebbe't 
is  n't ;  but  on  me  left  here  sits  himself  ;  may  I 
ax  where  then  's  forself  ?  " 

Himself  (so  called)  twisted  impatiently  in  his 
chair ;  the  father  of  herself  turned  and  looked 
inquiringly  at  his  wife ;  it  was  herself's  sister 
who  spoke. 

"  Ye  won't  see  her  this  night,"  said  Hannah ; 
"  horses  would  n't  drag  her  here.  I  did  me  best 
to  bring  her  an'  'twas  no  use." 

"  No  matter,"  answered  Ned,  "  no  matter ;  I 
only  axed  —  Aisy  now,  Martin,  me  son,  one 
minit  now.  It  just  struck  me,  seein'  by  chance 
the  text  on  the  wall  over  there,  that  mebbe  some- 
wan,"  and  Ned  threw  a  sly  look  at  Hugh  sitting 
dour  and  solemn  at  the  head  of  the  table,  "some- 


They  Twain.  69 

wan  'd  lek  to  start  proceeding  wi'  a  mouthful  o' 
prayer."  Mrs.  Fallen  turned  her  eyes  and  fixed 
them  on  the  big  Bible  lying  solitary  in  the 
middle  of  the  table ;  Hugh  himsel  sat  grave 
and  irresolute.  Was  the  occasion  fitting  ? 
thought  he.  Yes  and  no.  It  was  well  always 
to  ask  a  blessing  on  man's  feeble  deliberations ; 
still  — 

"  Here,"  cried  Hynes,  all  abruptly,  "  no  more 
o'  this  foolery  —  we  want  no  prayin'  to  settle 
what 's  to  be  done  here.  Hugh  Fallen,  ye  know 
me  and  the  kind  o'  me  ;  your  father  knew  mine. 
I  'm  a  good  Protestan'  and  a  man  o'  me  word, 
an'  I  Ve  lived  your  neighbour  all  me  life.  Well, 
I  Ve  courted  your  daughter  Jane  off  an'  on  these 
years  —  an'  she  says  she  '11  marry  me.  But  all 
that 's  neither  here  nor  there.  Ye  know  what 
I  've  got  for  her ;  there 's  a  tidy  farm  an'  a  good 
house  an'  offices  —  ye  know  it  all ;  if  your 
daughter  marries  me,  she  '11  not  be  the  worst  off 
in  these  parts  by  a  long  way.  She  can  act  the 
lady  if  she  likes,  an'  for  food  or  raiment  she  '11 
need  nothin'.  All  this  ye  know,  Hugh  Fallen, 
as  well  as  I  do.  Come  !  have  I  said  enough  ?  " 

"Plenty,"  answered  Fallen,  "plenty  —  so  far 
as  it  goes.  But  there  's  one  thing  I  'd  like  to 


-jo  They  Twain. 

have  your  word  on.  What  's  this  I  hear  about 
the  money  ye  owe  Bob  Hicks  over  there  on 
mortgage  ?  "  Big  Ned  brought  his  fist  down 
heavily.  "  Right,"  said  he,  "  right."  Mrs.  Fallen 
tightened  her  lips  ;  Hannah  coughed  nervously. 

"  Who  told  ye  that,  Fallon  ?  "  cried  Hynes, 
springing  to  his  feet.  "  Tell  me  the  blaggard's 
name."  ("  Aisy,  aisy,"  said  the  peacemaker.) 

"  If  I  did,  I  'd  have  to  name  a  whole  town- 
land." 

"  Ye  know  it  's  a  lie,  a  damned  lie."    ("  Aisy, 


"Well,  that's  as  may  be.  It's  one  word 
against  another.  If  ye  say  it  's  a  lie,  well,  I 
believe  ye." 

"  Just  as  ye  like,  Fallon  ;  say  ye  believe  me, 
an'  I  say  no  more.  Say  ye  believe  the  lie  (Hynes 
half  turned  to  the  door)  an'  out  I  go." 

The  Fallons  stepped  back.  Debt  or  no  debt, 
they  had  no  desire  to  close  the  door  on  Hynes. 
He  was  a  man  of  standing  in  Gorteen,  of  good 
family  and  appearance;  he  made,  with  all  his 
faults  of  temper,  extravagance,  and  the  rest,  a 
better  match  for  Jane  than  they  had  ever  hoped 
for.  So  having  shown  him  that,  if  on  his  side 
there  were  hopes,  on  their  side  there  were  doubts, 


They  Twain.  71 

the  Fallons  stepped  back,  asked  pardon,  and 
presently  were  forgiven. 

And  now  came  the  other  side  of  the  transac- 
tion. 

"  What,"  asked  Hynes,  "  was  the  sum  total 
of  the  fortune  which  Jane  Fallon  would  bring 
with  her?" 

A  hush  fell  in  the  little  parlour.  Big  Ned 
drove  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  family  Bible;  Mrs.  Fallon  and 
Hannah  exchanged  knowing  looks ;  Hugh 
looked  thoughtfully  for  a  moment  at  the  portrait 
of  King  William,  then  coughed,  and  leant  back 
in  his  chair. 

The  opening  of  Hugh's  speech  was  clever, 
but  rather  tiresome.  He  was  conscious  of 
Martin's  virtues ;  he  would  be  glad  to  welcome 
him  as  one  of  the  family  ;  he  hoped  that  every- 
thing might  be  amicably  settled,  and  have  the 
blessing  of  the  Almighty.  Still,  he  was  anxious 
to  remove  misapprehension.  It  passed  current 
in  Gorteen  that  he.  Hugh  Fallon,  was  a  man  of 
means,  and  that  his  daughters  would  bring  with 
them  large  fortunes.  Now  — 

"  I  say,  Fallon,"  interrupted  Hynes,  with  that 
tone  and  manner  of  supercilious  arrogance 


72  '  They  Twain. 

which,  perhaps,  experience  had  taught  him  to 
assume  in  transacting  matters  of  business, 
"  enough  of  this.  I  know  what  you  're  drivin' 
at.  If  ye  can't  belittle  me,  you  '11  belittle  your- 
self. Suppose  ye  cut  the  speech  short,  an'  make 
your  excuses  after  you  've  told  me  what  you  '11 
give  with  the  girl." 

"Young  man,  young  man  !  "  cried  Big  Ned; 
"that's  a  foolish  way  to  talk.  You'll  gain 
nothin'  by  goin'  to  work  that  way.  Go  on  wi' 
your  speech,  Hugh  ;  it 's  great." 

Fallon  had  flushed  crimson;  his  jaw  was  set; 
and  when  presently  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  Hynes 
and  began  to  speak  again  his  voice  rang  hard. 
He  would  take  the  young  man  at  his  word  ;  he 
would  say  at  once  what  his  daughter  Jane  would 
take  with  her  —  Item,  her  gray  pony  ;  Item,  her 
brindled  cow  and  calf ;  Item,  sundry  hens  and 
chickens  which  she  had  reared;  Item,  a  wooden 
bedstead  and  fittings  — 

"Take  all  that  afterwards,"  said  Hynes. 
"What's  the  money?" 

"  Fifty  poun'  in  notes,"  shouted  Fallon. 

No  wonder  Mrs.  Fallon  and  Hannah  ex- 
changed wondering  looks  ;  no  wonder  Big  Ned 
smote  the  table.  Fifty  pounds  !  Why,  rumour 


They  Twain.  73 

and  their  own  knowledge  had  set  the  dowry  at 
not  less  than  three  times  that  sum.  Fifty 
pounds !  No  wonder  Hynes  threw  back  his 
head  and  laughed.  Fifty  pounds  and  Jane 
Fallon  —  Oh,  Lord,  Lord  ! 

"Fifty  pound,"  cried  he;  "is  that  what  ye 
say  ?  D'  ye  hear  your  husband,  ma'am  ?  He 
says  he  '11  disgrace  ye  all  before  the  country. 
D'  ye  hear  him,  Ned  Nolan  ?  " 

"  I  hear,"  said  Nolan.  "  Ye  've  brought  it 
on  yerself,  young  man ;  ye  may  fight  it  out 
between  ye  ; "  and  with  that  answer  Mrs.  Fallon 
and  Hannah,  well  knowing  that  Hugh  had 
spoken  in  anger,  and  in  the  end  would  not  dis- 
grace them,  agreed. 

So  Fallon  and  Hynes  fought  it  out,  pound  by 
pound ;  the  younger  man  attacking  strongly  and 
with  more  discretion  than  he  had  hitherto  used 
(as,  indeed,  became  one  who  was  fighting,  not 
so  much  for  a  wife  as  for  money  wherewith  to 
pay  his  debts  —  yes,  his  debts) ;  the  other  re- 
tiring stubbornly  and  not  without  a  grim  sat- 
isfaction at  the  sight  of  his  opponent  paying  so 
heavily  for  his  folly  —  at  last  stopped  dead  at 
one  hundred  pounds.  That  was  still  far  short 
of  Jane's  dowry.  No  matter;  he  had  been 


74  They   Twain. 

crossed  and  angered.  One  step  further  he 
would  not  go. 

And  now  ensued  a  battle  royal ;  a  long,  hot, 
nearly  foul  struggle,  in  which  the  combatants 
wrangled  as  do  jobbers  in  a  fair  over  the  price 
of  a  horse  ;  in  which  Hynes  argued,  persuaded, 
threatened,  and  Hugh  Fallon  stood  doggedly 
firm,  nor  scorned  the  voluble  services  of  his 
supports ;  whilst  ever  between  the  two  parties 
Big  Ned  strove  mightily  for  peace  and  terms. 
So  for  an  hour  the  battle  waged,  then  flagged 
somewhat;  presently,  under  Ned's  astute  gen- 
eralship, came  near  an  issue. 

"  Come,  boys,"  cried  Ned,  "  enough  talk ! 
Listen  to  me,  me  sons.  Hynes  here  says  he  '11 
take  a  hunderd  an*  twenty  —  no  less ;  Fallon 
says  he  '11  give  a  hunderd  —  no  more.  Come  ! 
gie  me  yer  hands,  split  the  differ,  an1  say  a 
hunderd  an1  ten.  Is  it  a  bargain  ?  Now  then ! 
no  drawin'  back ;  clinch  the  bargain  quick  an' 
be  done,  for  God  knows  me  throat's  pantin'  for 
a  drop  o'  sperits." 

"  It's  a  hunderd,"  said  Hugh. 

"  Well,  curse  ye,"  cried  Hynes,  "  for  a  heart 
o'  stone  !  Come  !  here  's  the  last  word ;  make  it 
guineas,  an'  I  take  the  heifer." 


They  Twain.  75 

The  offer  (which  was  precisely  such  an  one 
as  Ulster  men  make  every  day  in  fairs)  seemed 
reasonable.  His  wife  and  daughter  urged  Fallen 
to  accept  it ;  Big  Ned  lent  his  voice  on  the 
same  side. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Fallen,  at  last,  "  very 
well ;  guineas  be  it,  an'  I  wish  you  luck  o'  it." 

"  Amen  an'  Hurroo !  "  shouted  Ned ;  "  an' 
now  out  wi'  the  glasses,  Maria,  ye  girl  ye,  till 
we  christen  the  match ;  out  wi'  the  glasses  — 
Whisht!  who's  this?  Be  Jabers !  it's  Jane. 
Come  in,  Jane,  come  in;  we've  settled  ye,  ye 
girl,  ye." 

Jane,  very  pale  and  very  calm  (so  it  seemed), 
walked  slowly  up  to  the  table ;  and  as  Hynes 
eyed  her,  his  thought  was  that  even  with  a 
hundred  guineas  glimmering  behind  her,  she 
looked  deuced  old  and  ugly. 

"Come!"  shouted  Ned;  "come,  Martin,  an' 
kiss  yir  sweetheart.  Damn  it!  man,  if  I  was 
your  age  —  " 

"  I  '11  ask  ye  to  stay  where  ye  are,"  said  Jane 
to  Martin ;  then,  "  I  'm  thankful  to  ye  all  for 
the  good  opinion  ye  have  of  me  ;  an'  I  thank  ye 
all  for  the  way  ye  have  bought  an'  sold  me  this 
night  —  it 's  the  custom  I  know ;  still,  I  thank 
ye." 


76  They  Twain. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Jane,"  said  her  mother. 

"  I  know  I  am,"  answered  she ;  "  maybe 
'twas  Satan  tempted  me  to  listen  to  all  ye've 
said  about  me  —  but  I  was  curious.  Again,  I 
thank  ye." 

"  Och,  not  at  all,"  said  Big  Ned  ;  "  sure,  we  'd 
do  as  much  for  any  decent  girl." 

"  For  all  that,  I  'm  worth  more  'n  a  hundred 
guineas  —  an'  if  you,  father  an'  mother,  choose 
to  sell  me  for  that,  I  don't  choose  to  go. 
Money 's  not  my  price  —  an'  you,  Martin 
Hynes,  should  know  it.  Your  heifer !  —  that 
was  the  word." 

"  Come,  come,  Jane,"  said  Hynes,  "stop  this 
foolishness  —  the  word  meant  nothing  —  for- 
give it." 

"  Thank  God  I  know  ye  in  time  —  I  '11  never 
marry  ye." 

Then  Hugh  Fallen  rose  and  took  Jane  by  the 
arm  and  sat  her  in  a  chair. 

"  Sit  ye  there,"  said  he,  "  an'  drink  your  own 
health,  an'  hold  your  tongue  ;  for  you  '11  marry 
whoever  I  tell  ye  to  marry." 

And  Jane,  her  lips  moving  in  prayer  for 
strength,  sat  down. 


They  Twain.  77 


II. 

Next  morning  came  Hynes,  all  radiant  and 
hearty,  all  his  indiscretions  forgotten,  his  faults 
hidden  conveniently  away;  his  voice  now  soft 
and  pleasant,  his  face  shining  with  good  fellow- 
ship ;  Hynes,  the  lover,  in  a  word ;  no  more  the 
man  of  the  night  before  than  Jane  was  a  woman 
who  had  once  loved  him. 

"  Where  's  Jane  ?  Where  's  Jane  ? "  he  called 
from  the  threshold  ;  presently  found  her  hard  at 
work  in  the  kitchen,  seized  her  and  tried  for  a 
kiss.  Quickly  she  freed  herself  and  faced  him. 

"  Ah,"  said  she  bitterly,  "  you  'd  kiss  me  as 
Judas  kissed  the  Master  !  Ye  may  go ;  you  and 
your  kisses  are  not  for  me.  D'  ye  think  I  for- 
get ?  D'  ye  know  me  so  little  as  to  think  one 
night  would  change  me  ?  "  Martin's  eyes  fell. 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  "  is  it  for  a  word  you  'd  give 
me  the  go-by  ?  Sure  it  was  only  a  slip;  I  meant 
nothing  —  " 

"  No,"  said  Jane,  "  maybe  you  did  n't ;  but 
the  word  can  stand  all  the  same.  If  I  'm  not 
what  ye  said,  ye  bargained  for  me  like  one. 


78  They  Twain. 

Money,  money  !  —  that 's  what  ye  want  to 
marry,  Martin  Hynes;  not  me  at  all,  but  my 
money.  '  Give  me  so  much,'  ye  said  —  Oh  !  I 
heard  ye  —  '  Give  me  so  much,  an'  I  '11  take  the 
heifer ! '  Take  me  —  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Hynes ;  "  quit  your  foolishness. 
Is  n't  there  a  bargain  in  Gorteen  before  every 
marriage  ?  An'  supposin'  I  was  hard.  Was  n't 
I  obliged  to  be  when  I  faced  your  father,  an' 
Hannah,  an'  your  mother?" 

"  I  know  !  I  don't  forget  it !  It 's  all  o'  ye. 
Oh,  the  disappointment !  An'  ye  lied  last  night, 
Martin;  hard  ye  lied.  Ah!  I  could  tell  it  by 
your  voice.  Ye  are  in  debt,  I  say.  It's  not 
me  ye  want ;  it 's  the  money,  to  cover  your 
disgrace.  Oh,  I  know  it !  Oh,  the  disappoint- 
ment !  And  I  thought  ye  wanted  me  for  my- 
self. It's  all  over  —  all  over!  "and  fast  came 
the  tears. 

Now  was  Martin's  chance.  For  a  woman  in 
tears  is  at  your  knowing  man's  feet. 

"  Och  !  there,  Jane,"  said  he,  and  came  closer. 
"  Och  !  there,  woman  dear.  God  knows,  I  do 
care  for  ye.  Sure,  ye  know  I  do.  Come,  old 
girl!" 

He  laid   his   hand   on   her  arm,   and  for   a 


They  Twain.  79 

moment  Jane  wavered  —  Ah !  he  was  such  a 
handsome  man  ;  such  a  bright,  handsome  man, 
and  his  voice  was  so  soft  as  he  stood  there 
pleading  —  for  a  moment  she  wavered,  then 
suddenly  found  strength  and  drew  from  him. 

"  No,  no  ! "  she  cried ;  "  don't  touch  me. 
Never,  never !  Go  away !  Martin,  ye  tempt 
me,  ye  tempt  me  !  Never,  never !  will  I  marry 
ye  ! " 

"  Ah,  don't  say  that,"  pleaded  Hynes  ; 
"  don't,  woman,  don't.  Sure,  ye  '11  break  me 
heart." 

Jane  dried  her  tears. 

"Martin  Hynes,"  said  she,  "this  is  my  last 
word.  Ye  may  go  an'  get  a  wife  to  be  your 
slave  somewhere  else  —  for  in  this  house,  God 
helping  me,  you  won't  get  one.  I  did  care 
for  ye  till  last  night.  Now  I  don't  care  a 
thraneen  for  ye  ;  the  face  o'  ye  is  hateful  to  me, 
an'  the  soft  words  o'  ye.  I  know  ye  now  — 
oh  !  I  know  ye  now.  It's  your  slave,  I  'd  be ; 
cat  an'  dog  we  'd  live  all  our  days.  Ah  !  it 's 
well  I  know  —  well  I  know !  "  And  she  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

Martin  stood  and  looked  hard  at  her.  Was 
she  in  sober  earnest,  or  only  playing  with  him, 


80  They  Twain. 

trying  him  ?  Was  all  his  hard  bargaining  to 
go  for  nothing,  and  the  money  with  it,  and  — 
and,  Jane,  too  ?  Not  that  he  cared  a  deal  for 
Jane  !  No.  A  little  pale-faced  thing  like  that, 
with  her  plain  smooth  hair  and  sober  dress, 
and  slow,  dreamy  eyes  —  how  could  he  care 
very  much  ?  Still,  a  good  wife  she  would  make 
for  any  man,  and  she  had  the  money.  He 
shook  her. 

"  Come,  Jane,"  said  he.  "  Come !  woman 
dear."  No  answer. 

"  Och  !  Jane.  Och !  woman  dear,  won't  ye 
forgive  me  ?  "  Still  no  answer. 

"  And  ye  won't  marry  me,  Jane  —  your  own 
me  —  eh,  Jane?"  He  walked  to  the  door. 
"  Very  well,  then,  so  be  it.  Your  mind 's  your 
own  —  who  'd  try  to  force  it  ?  But  don't  be  a 
fool,  Jane,  I  'd  advise  ye ;  don't  try  me  too 
far." 

The  door  closed ;  Jane  ran  to  the  window  and 
watched  Hynes  cross  the  yard;  then  put  her 
head  down  on  the  table.  "  Oh,  God  help  me," 
she  sobbed ;  "  God  help  me." 

Not  dolefully,  or  in  any  bad  humour  (for  he 
had  no  thought  that  Jane  would  resist  him 
long ;  nor,  indeed,  cared  exceedingly  if  she  did. 


They  Twain.  81 

Was  she  the  only  girl  in  Gorteen  who  had  gold 
jingling  in  her  pocket?) — not  dolefully,  there- 
fore, Hynes  went  swinging  across  the  fields  and 
soon  came  to  the  potato-plot  where  Fallon  was 
working. 

"  It's  a  good  day,"  said  he,  and  pulled  out 
his  pipe.  "  I  've  been  above.  Jane 's  in  the 
tantrums.  I  could  n't  make  head  or  tail  of  her. 
I  left  her  roarin'  yonder  an'  shoutin'  that  she 
hates  the  face  o'  me.  What  in  glory  's  come 
over  her  ? "  Fallon  leant  a  moment  on  his 
shovel. 

"Foolishness,"  answered  he,  "that's  what 
ails  her  —  some  sentimental  whim  or  other 
about  love,  an'  all  that.  It  's  nothin'.  Women 
are  lek  that  —  it'll  all  go.  When  you're  as 
ould  as  I  am  you'll  know  it" 

"  She  says  she  '11  not  marry  me  —  swears 
she'll  not."  Fallon  laughed. 

"  Ah  !  that 's  another  way  they  've  got  —  they 
lek  to  be  forced,  an'  made  much  of.  Ay ! 
they  're  all  alike.  Ye  need  n't  fear ;  she  '11 
marry  ye." 

''  Suppose  she  won't  ?  " 

"  Suppose !  What  supposin'  ?  Am  n't  I  her 
father  ?  Did  n't  I  breed  an'  rear  her  ?  Am  n't 
6 


82  They  Twain. 

/  marryin'  her  ?  D'  ye  think  childer  o'  mine  are 
brought  up  to  rebel  against  their  parents?" 
....  and  so  on,  wearily. 

"  Ay,"  answered  Hynes.  "  True.  Still,  Jane's 
powerful  determined,  an'  she  might  hold  out." 

"Determined!  An'  what  am  /.?"  cried 
Fallen.  "  Hold  out  ?  Well,  no.  She  '11  not ; 
niver  fear.  She's  just  playin'  wi'  ye.  Just 
you  come  an'  see  her  as  if  nothin'  had  happened ; 
/ '//  talk  to  her.  Away,  now,  an'  get  your  wed- 
din'  garment  ready ;  five  weeks  come  the  morra 
you  '11  want  it." 

"Very  good.  I  'm  willin'  an'  ready.  It's  in 
your  own  hands,"  said  Hynes.  "  Good  day 
to  ye." 

"Ay,  it's  in  my  hands,"  thought  Fallen,  as 
he  stood  looking  after  his  would-be  son-in-law; 
"  an'  serve  ye  right,  my  play-boy,  if  Jane  does  n't 
take  ye.  Still  — "  He  drove  his  shovel  into 
the  ground,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  day  sweetened 
toil  by  fitting  to  his  tongue  certain  texts  and 
apt  phrases  bearing  on  the  rights  of  parents 
and  the  duties  of  children ;  then,  night  having 
come,  went  home,  led  Jane  into  the  parlour, 
and  there,  from  his  place  beneath  the  clattering 
clock,  glibly  delivered  himself.  He  had  heard 


They  Twain.  83 

that  Jane  was  inclined  to  be  wayward,  and  stiff- 
necked,  and  rebellious ;  was  that  so  ?  Indeed  ! 
And  Jane  was  still  inclined  that  way  ?  Oh,  just 
so.  Well — and  thereupon  came  the  parental 
lecture;  long,  rambling,  authoritative,  brutally 
frank.  He  would  stand  no  nonsense.  He  was 
master  in  that  house.  So  long  as  she  lived  under 
his  roof,  Jane  should  do  his  bidding.  And  for 
herself,  in  conclusion,  let  her  beware  of  the  sin 
involved  in  the  breach  of  that  commandment 
delivered  to  Moses  on  the  Mount,  "Honour  thy 
father  .  .  .  ."  and  let  her  take  to  heart  that 
other  command,  "  Children  obey  your  parents 

IN   ALL   THINGS ! " 

"  Father,"  replied  Jane,  "  always  have  I 
obeyed  ye  an'  honoured  ye,  as  ye  know,  for  the 
good  ye  have  in  your  heart;  now  I  want  to 
honour  ye  —  but  how  can  I  when  you  command 
me  to  do  what  is  wrong  ?  You  've  quoted 
texts  for  me  ;  don't  ye  mind  that  other  passage : 
1 -And  they  twain  shall  be  one  flesh  .  .  .  .  ' 
D'ye  think  we  could  be  one  flesh?" 

"  Enough  of  this  ! "  cried  her  father,  and  rose 
wrathfully.  "  Are  ye  goin'  to  obey  me  ?  " 

"  Father,  don't  ask  me  to  set  myself  against 
ye.  Always  to  this  day  have  we  agreed  to- 


84  They  Twain. 

gether.  Surely  ye  can  see.  I  want  to  honour 
an'  obey  ye  —  why  can't  ye  let  me  ?  " 

"  Go  your  ways,"  roared  Fallon  ;  "  go  your 
ways  an'  purify  your  rebellious  heart.  Don't 
talk  to  me!  Five  weeks  hence  you  marry 
Martin  Hynes,  or  you  're  no  daughter  o'  mine. 
Go  your  ways  !  " 

That  was  plain  speaking;  what  could  Jane,  a 
poor  weak  woman  striving  to  do  right,  without 
friend  or  place  of  refuge,  with  her  hopes  shattered 
and  her  soul  weary,  what  could  Jane  dare  answer 
to  it  ?  In  sooth,  nothing.  Words  were  so  vain, 
argument  so  useless ;  everything  was  against  her ; 
alone  she  stood  face  to  face  with  her  fate  ;  what 
should  she  do  ?  Speak  and  go  out  into  the  world  ? 
Ah  !  no  —  no  ;  her  friends  (except  in  this  trial) 
were  still  her  friends,  not  unworthy,  any  of  them  ; 
her  home  was  still  her  home.  Submit  and  go  un- 
der the  yoke  ;  No  —  no !  In  God's  name  !  what 
then  ?  Keep  silent  and  endure,  and  hope  that 
all  might  come  right  in  the  end  ?  Yes,  perhaps 
so. 

Ah,  poor  Jane ! 

So  Jane  endured  in  silence,  and  her  life  was 
hard.  Often  Hynes  came,  and  always  she 
received  him  coldly,  silently,  not  dare  trust  her- 


They  Twain.  85 

self  to  look  at  his  face.  Day  after  day  she 
endured  her  mother's  hard  looks,  and  shakes  of 
the  head,  and  bitter  murmurings  about  the  fate 
of  those  doomed  to  breed  fools  and  rear  them 
ingrates.  Day  after  day  Hannah,  her  sister  (of 
whom,  had  you  known  her,  you  might  have 
expected  better  things),  upbraided  her  for  her 
joylessness,  her  foolish  attempts  to  thwart  their 
father,  and  to  make  them  all  the  laughing-stock 
of  the  country ;  above  all  for  her  treatment  of 
Hynes ;  day  after  day  Jane  heard  all  this  and 
endured  it ;  endured,  moreover,  her  father's 
stern  high-handedness  —  and  still  kept  silent. 

The  days  passed.  Preparations  for  the  wed- 
ding went  swiftly  on.  The  banns  were  called ; 
presents  and  congratulations  came  ;  guests  were 
bidden  to  the  feast ;  Hannah's  tongue  wearied  ; 
Hynes  (like  many  others)  taking  Jane's  silence 
for  consent,  grew  jubilant :  and  Jane  herself  ? 
"  Oh,  what  about  Jane  ?  "  said  her  friends ;  and 
their  word  just  here  may  stand.  A  fool  she  was, 
with  her  head  full  of  nonsense,  going  about  the 
house  with  a  face  like  a  corpse,  an'  mumblin'  an* 
mutterin'  to  herself.  Oh,  ay !  A  fool  she  was 
—  a  fool !  What  better  match  than  Hynes  could 
any  girl  wish  for  ?  He  had  faults  —  ay,  so  had 


86  They  Twain. 

every  man.  "  Serve  Jane  right  if  she  missed 
him  — the  fool!" 

Poor  Jane  !  She  was  fallen  on  evil  tongues 
and  evil  days.  And  yet  she  was  only  a  poor, 
weak  woman,  striving  feebly  to  do  right.  Only 
a  poor  weak  woman.  Ah  !  she  knew  herself  to 
be  pitiably  weak.  Might  strength,  great  strength 
be  given  to  her  ....  Ah  !  how  happy  she  had 
once  been.  Ah !  the  bitter,  bitter  change  a  few- 
dark  hours  had  brought. 

So  the  days  passed,  and  at  last  came  the 
wedding-day.  The  carriage  (the  day  before  it 
had  gone  dolefully  through  Bunn  town  as  a 
funeral  coach)  was  at  the  door.  The  bridegroom, 
arrayed  gloriously,  and  radiant  as  the  morning, 
had  come.  In  the  house  of  the  Fallons  was  joy 
and  laughter. 

"  Time  to  start,"  was  the  cry.  Bring  forth 
the  bride  ....  Eh?  Eh?  What  was  that? 
Jane  not  in  her  room !  Not  dressed  !  Where  in 
glory,  then  —  ?  Great  bustle,  great  search ; 
hands  up  everywhere ;  bewilderment  on  every 
face.  No  wedding?  No  breakfast?  No  meat ! 
No  drink  !  Oh,  absurd  !  Jane  must  be  found ! 

High  and  low  they  searched.  No  Jane  any- 
where. Out  they  all  went;  searched  up  and 


They  Twain.  87 

down,  started  even,  some  of  them,  to  peer  half- 
heartedly into  ditches  and  bogholes.  No  ;  Jane 
was  lost. 

"  She 's  drowned  herself  ! "  cried  Hannah. 
"  I  know  it.  She  's  had  death  in  her  face  this 
week.  Oh,  Lord,  Lord !  "  she  sobbed,  and  ran 
wildly  into  the  fields;  there  suddenly  came  on 
Jane,  dressed  in  her  work-a-day  garments  calmly 
weeding  in  her  little  garden  patch. 

"  What 's  this  ;  what 's  this?  "  cried  Hannah. 
"  What  new  foolishness  is  this  ?  Come  in !  Come 
in!" 

Jane  tightened  her  lips,  and  went  on  weeding. 

Then  Hannah  shook  her. 

"  Come  in,  I  tell  ye  !  "  cried  she ;  "  before 
half  the  townland  is  here  to  jeer  at  ye.  Come  in ! 
it 's  too  late  now  to  repent.  Come  !  " 

Jane  shook  her  head. 

"  You  're  not  coming  ?  "  cried  Hannah. 

"  No." 

"You'll  disgrace  us  all!"  cried  Hannah. 
"  Niver  again  can  we  lift  our  heads  in  Gorteen. 
Oh,  you  miserable  fool !  "  shrieked  she,  and  ran 
to  spread  the  news.  But  Jane  worked  on,  her 
lips  moving  in  prayer  for  strength,  her  face  very 
pale  and  plain  below  her  shining  black  hair. 


88  They  Twain. 

What  was  this?  her  mother  panted.  What 
was  this  ?  She  would  be  late  —  the  breakfast 
would  be  spoilt;  all  her  lovely  cooking  be 
lost. 

Her  father  came,  took  her  roughly  by  the  arm, 
and  pointed  towards  the  house.  "  Go  in  an' 
dress  yourself,"  said  he.  "  March !  Be  ready 
inside  fifteen  minutes." 

"  No,  father,"  said  Jane. 

"  Do  as  I  bid  ye  !  " 

"  No  —  you  '11  kill  me  first." 

"  Do  ye  want  me  to  raise  a  scene  ?  "  shouted 
Fallen.  "  D'  ye  dare  to  defy  me  ?  Defy  me  ! 
Quick !  in  with  ye ! "  With  both  hands  he 
gripped  her  and  strove  to  pull  her  towards  the 
house.  "  Quick  !  in  with  ye  !  "  he  shouted. 

"  No,  father  —  with  God's  help,  no." 

The  guests  came  hurrying  up,  among  them  the 
bridegroom.  Hynes  stepped  forward  and  took 
Fallen  by  the  arm. 

"  Stand  back,"  said  he,  "  stand  back,  Fallen ; 
let  go  her  arms,  I  tell  ye.  Jane,"  he  went  on, 
and  took  her  hands,  "  look  me  in  the  face  and 
answer  the  truth.  Here  before  all  of  us  say  that 
ye  won't  marry  me.  Say  it,  Jane." 

So  Jane  lifted  her  eyes,  a  great  sob  in  her 


They  Twain.  89 

throat,  and  her  lips  prayerless ;  lifted  her  eyes 
and  looked  at  Hynes,  and  at  sight  of  him,  his 
manhood,  his  glory  and  beauty,  she  suddenly 
lost  strength,  and  she  went  in  and  married 
him. 


Shan's  Diversion. 


Shan's   Diversion. 


MARKET-DAY  and  its  glories  were  over;  all 
about  the  Grogan's  home  was  snug  for  the  night ; 
Shan  and  Biddy  sat  on  stools  by  the  hearth-stone, 
silently  enjoying  their  supper  of  a  toasted  her- 
ring and  white  bread  and  tea. 

Suddenly  Shan  slapped  his  knee,  set  his  bowl 
on  the  floor,  and,  after  a  deal  of  fumbling,  brought 
forth  a  letter  from  the  inner  pocket  of  his  waist- 
coat. 

"  Niver  crossed  me  mind  t'  this  mortial  min- 
ute," he  began  apologetically ;  "  if  it  had  n't 
come  into  me  head  about  meetin'  Phil,  the  lad 
in  the  post-office,  I  'd  niver  —  " 

"  Who  's  it  from  ?  "  snapped  Biddy. 

Shan  looked  sideways  at  the  envelope.  Well, 
that  was  hard  to  say  just  yet,  he  thought;  but 
the  lassie  in  the  office  told  him  it  came  from 
America,  so  he  supposed  — 


94  Shan's  Diversion. 

"Whisht,  ye  fool!"  cried  his  wife.  "It's 
from  yir  brother  Mike.  Open  it  quick." 

Shan  took  out  his  clasp-knife,  cautiously  slit 
the  envelope,  and  pulled  out  half  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper  carefully  folded  over  a  money  order. 

"  Give  uz  it,"  said  Biddy,  as  she  shot  out  her 
crooked  fingers.  "  No  —  th'  other  —  the  money. 
How  much  is  it  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  till  I  read  it  ?  Aisy,  till  I  see 
what  th'  ould  boy  says." 

Shan  shifted  his  stool  till  he  had  brought  his 
back  against  the  chimney-jamb ;  then  leant  to- 
wards the  fire  to  catch  its  light.  The  letter  was 
short  and  quite  matter  of  fact :  the  writer  was 
well,  requested  an  answer,  enclosed  a  trifle  to 
help  with  the  rent. 

"  That 's  the  whole  av  it,  ivery  scrape,"  said 
Shan.  "Well,  thank  God,  the  ould  boy's  in 
health  —  " 

"  Give  uz  it,"  said  Biddy,  sharply ;  "  an'  read 
this.  Tell  uz  quick." 

Shan  took  the  order,  leant  again  towards  the 
firelight,  and  from  the  very  first  word  began  to 
spell  out  its  contents.  Presently  he  came  to  the 
kernel  of  the  matter:  "'the  sum  of — T-w-o 
Pounds?  " 


Shan's  Diversion.  95 

Like  a  flash  came  the  temptation,  —  a  tempta- 
tion which  at  any  time  might  have  come  to  Shan, 
as  to  any  honest  man,  but  which  just  then, 
thanks  to  the  malignant  potency  of  market-day 
whisky,  he  was  hardly  prepared  to  resist. 

"  '  T-w-o,  T-W-O  — '  "  he  stammered.  There 
were  ten  shillings  more :  suppose  he  did  not 
read  them  ?  Biddy  would  be  none  the  wiser, 
and  he  could  .... 

"  Ach  !  what  ails  ye,  stammerin'  an'  stutterin' 
lekthat?"  said  Biddy,  querulously. 

"  Och  !  it 's  the  light,"  said  Shan,  and  shifted 
his  stool ;  "  shure  it 's  ojus  bad." 

"  Only  two  pound,"  said  Biddy.  "  Give  it 
over  —  I  Ve  heard  enough." 

Shan  reached  the  money  order  to  his  wife : 
Fate  had  willed  it ;  two  pounds  he  had  read, 
the  rest,  only  for  Biddy,  he  might  have  read : 
two  pounds  then  it  must  remain. 

He  put  his  head  back  against  the  jamb,  closed 
his  eyes,  and  began  to  think.  His  mind  was  a 
little  confused,  his  moral  sense  a  little  dulled 
(as  indeed  sometimes  happens  with  the  natives 
of  Bilboa  on  market-days);  still  certain  broad 
facts  stood  clear  against  the  feeble  flow  of  his 
thought. 


96  Shan's  Diversion. 

He  had  lied  —  yes ;  but  maybe  he  'd  have 
told  the  truth  had  she  let  him  read  on.  The  lie 
might  pass.  .  .  .  The  two  pounds  were  Biddy's  ; 
yes,  every  farthing  of  them.  Ay !  but  the  ten 
shillings  were  his  —  if  he  could  get  them. 
Could  he  ?  ...  Ten  shillings !  Since  he  mar- 
ried, never  once  had  he  had  so  much  to  call 
his  own  —  not  once.  Whatever  he  sold,  —  pigs, 
calves,  potatoes,  all  the  money  went  to  Biddy  — 
Biddy  —  Biddy  !  Was  that  how  a  man  should 
be  treated  ?  Well,  please  God,  some  day  he  'd 
make  a  change  ;  he  'd  show  his  teeth.  He  did  n't 
care  a  curse  about  money  —  still,  he  was  treated 
hard.  .  .  .  And  now !  yes,  be  damned  to  him ! 
but  he  'd  have  that  ten  shillings  if  he  had  to  go 
on  his  knees  to  Bunn  for  it. 

His  face  flushed  with  a  spurious  courage  ;  he 
looked  cautiously  across  at  Biddy.  With  her 
elbows  set  on  her  knees,  she  sat  forward,  think* 
ing  hard,  and  sometimes  mumbling  as  she  looked 
over  the  top  of  the  money  order  into  the  fire. 

Upstairs,  in  a  safe  place  between  the  thatch 
and  the  side-wall,  was  hidden  the  pound  or  two 
which  hitherto  had  made  the  whole  fortune  of  the 
Grogans.  This  God-send,  so  Biddy  was  think- 
ing, added  to  that  hoard,  more  than  doubled  it, — 


Shan's  Diversion.  97 

a  powerful  lot  of  money  to  be  under  the  roof 
with  two  lone  people !  .  .  .  Ah !  it  was  all 
needed  sore .  A  new  pair  of  corduroys  for  Shan ; 
a  striped  shawl  for  herself ;  a  —  a  —  naw !  the 
bonnet  must  go.  They  wanted  a  skillet,  a  gallon, 
and  a  milking  porringer.  .  .  .  Could  she  get 
that  bonnet  ?  Och,  och !  her  wits  were  wander- 
ing. .  .  .  And  the  rent  ?  Aw !  the  rent  might 
go  to  glory.  She  'd  pay  when  she  was  made, 
not  a  foot  sooner.  And  —  and  who  knew  what 
might  turn  up  ?  Maybe  another  order ! 

She  looked  at  the  piece  of  white  paper  be- 
tween her  hands.  To  think  that  meant  TWO 
POUNDS.  Two  whole  pounds !  It  looked 
shocking  thin  and  delicate.  Suppose  she  lost 
it,  tore  it  ?  Suppose  the  post-office  smashed  and 
could  n't  pay  ?  A  w,  aw  ! 

Almost  fiercely  she  turned  to  Shan. 

"We'll  start  for  Bunn  first  thing  in  the 
mornin',"  said  she.  "  D'  ye  hear  me  ?  " 

Shan  turned  on  his  stool  and  began  rubbing 
his  ear.  Sure  the  divil  was  in  the  woman  — 
and  he  thinking  she  'd  send  him  alone !  If  she 
came  she  'd  see  him  sign  for  and  draw  all  the 
money  —  an'' —  an'  — 

"  D  'ye  heare  me  ?  "  repeated  Biddy. 
7 


98  Shan's  Diversion. 

"  All  right,"  said  Shan.  "  All  right.  Jist  as 
ye  lek." 

It  was  not  all  right,  though,  and  the  knowledge 
kept  Shan  that  night  awake  for  hours.  Where 
was  his  Dutch  courage  now  ?  Gone  with  the 
snuffing  of  the  candle.  It  was  as  certain  that 
Biddy  would  go  to  Bunn  and  find  him  out  as 
that  she  was  lying  even  then  in  the  bed  beside 
him.  Oh !  he  wished  the  ten  shillings  in  the 
pit  of  hell!  .  .  .  Confess?  Naw — naw  —  he 
dare  not !  Better  trust  to  luck  —  maybe  some- 
thing would  turn  up. 

Nothing  turned  up  in  the  night ;  nothing  the 
next  morning;  nothing  all  that  weary  way  to 
Bunn.  Shan's  heart  was  heavy  as  his  unwilling 
feet.  Never  had  the  streets  given  him  a  colder 
welcome.  And  there  was  the  post-office ;  and 
nothing  had  turned  up.  Well !  so  be  it. 

What  was  that  ?  He  must  sign  his  name  f 
Indeed ;  and  where  ?  There  f 

Aw,  very  well.  Give  him  grip  of  a  pen. 
Something  flashed  upon  him  ....  Yes  !  he  'd 
try.  He  squared  his  elbows,  cocked  his  head, 
dabbed  the  pen  down  viciously  —  and  broke  it. 
Ach !  such  pens.  Was  that  the  best  her 
Majesty's  Government  could  do?  He  tried 


Shan's  Diversion.  99 

another  —  it  broke.  Well,  sorrow  take  the  like 
he  ever  came  across  !  Couldn't  write  f  of  course 
he  could.  What!  they  had  no  more  f  He  drew 
a  penny  from  his  pocket,  threw  it  on  the  coun- 
ter, and  implored  Biddy  to  do  a  charity  and  go 
next  door  for  a  ha'porth  o'  nibs.  Biddy  hesi- 
tated ;  could  see  no  harm  in  going ;  went,  and 
presently  returning  met  Shan  in  the  post-office 
doorway  with  two  sovereigns  in  his  outstretched 
palm. 

"  Ha  ! "  said  he,  "  shure  I  shamed  them.  Ye 
wur  hardly  out  o'  the  dure  when  they  rowled 
out  the  finest  pens  ye  iver  seen  —  ay,  by  the 
dozen.  An'  there 's  yir  money  safe  as  the 
Bank." 

So  far  very  well.  But  soon  for  Shan  arose 
this  question  :  What  should  he  do  with  the  half 
sovereign,  which  just  then  lay  wrapped  in  paper 
at  the  root  of  a  great  thistle  in  the  corner  of  a 
field  ?  He  could  not  bank  it ;  his  fear  of  Biddy 
forbade  that  he  should  carry  it,  or  spend  it,  or 
hide  it  in  the  house.  It  was  worth  less  than 
nothing  lying  there  fallow ;  some  morning, 
stealthy  as  his  visits  were,  Biddy  would  surely 
discover  him  gloating  over  his  treasure;  he 
might  die  and  leave  it  to  the  worms  and  the  jingle 


IOO  Shan's  Diversion. 

of  a  stranger's  spade.  Yes,  thought  Shan,  as 
he  stood,  one  fine  May  morning,  leaning  on  his 
shovel  in  a  potato  farrow  ;  yes,  something  must 
be  done  with  it.  It  haunted  his  sleep,  puckered 
his  brow,  was  a  load  on  his  mind,  was  the  divil's 
own  bother  entirely. 

From  far  away,  across  the  hills,  came  a  shrill 
whistle,  and,  quick  after  it,  the  rumble  of  the 
first  morning  train  on  its  way  from  Clogheen  to 
Bunn.  For  the  hundredth  time  Shan  wished 
that  he  could  have  just  one  jaunt  by  steam  right 
out  into  the  wonders  of  the  world.  What !  .  .  . 
Yes,  by  thunder !  There  was  the  money  waiting, 
lying  waiting  at  the  thistle  root.  He  had  n't  had 
a  day's  diversion  since  his  wedding-day  — twenty 
long  years  ago.  .  .  .Biddy?  Pah  /  He  would 
be  a  man  for  once ;  he  'd  go.  Yes,  but  per- 
haps, after  all,  it  were  best  to  go  peacefully  and 
knowingly. 

All  day  long  he  pondered.  Five  o'clock 
came  and  Biddy's  Hoi-i-i  from  the  hill.  He 
drove  the  point  of  his  shovel  under  a  root,  bore 
hard  on  the  handle,  smashed  the  metal  across, 
and  with  the  broken  pieces  in  his  hand  went 
sadly  up  to  tea. 

Dear,  oh  dear !   such  a  misfortune  —  broke  it 


Shan's  Diversion.  101 

at  the  last  shovelful.  And  there  was  the  field 
only  half  done,  and  he  had  n't  another.  Borrow 
one  ?  Of  course  not,  and  everybody  busy  like 
himself.  A  spade!  Did  Biddy  say  a  spade 
might  do  ?  Aw,  'deed  it  might,  and  so  might  a 
wooden  spoon  if  the  nights  were  all  days  !  Get 
a  new  one  f  Ay  !  he  supposed  so ;  there  was 
no  other  way  out  of  it;  that  was  the  way  the 
money  went ;  och,  och,  all  that  long  tramp  into 
Bunn  !  Go  then  f  Go  that  night  ? 

"  Is  it  walk  to  Bunn  an'  back  now  ye  'd  have 
me  do  ?  "  Shan  asked  with  a  world  of  reproach 
in  his  voice.  "  Now,  after  all  that  day's  work? 
Be  the  King !  but  it 's  worse  than  nigger 
drivin'." 

Well,  then,  could  he  be  back  early  in  the 
morning? 

"Mebbe,"  said  Shan,  "mebbe;  if  the  shops 
is  open  mebbe  I  cud."  He  stretched  himself 
lazily ;  put  on  his  hat ;  went  out,  and  turning 
into  the  byre  there  covered  his  mouth  with  his 
hand  and  silently  laughed. 

Early  next  morning,  Shan,  with  the  price  of  a 
new  shovel  in  his  pocket,  left  home  and  started 
for  Bunn.  He  kept  to  the  road  for  about  half  a 
mile ;  then  doubled  back  through  the  fields 


IO2  Shan's  Diversion. 

and  rescued  his  half  sovereign  from  the  thistle 
root. 

Once  on  the  road  again  his  spirits  rose  with 
a  bound.  From  the  mountains  the  air  came 
fresh  as  dew ;  the  hedges  were  alive  with  birds 
singing  among  the  young  green. 

"  '  She  dressed  me  up  in  scarlet-red t ' 
trotted  Shan  in  his  glee, 

" '  An'  treated  me  very  kind-ly, 

But  still  f  thought  me  heart  V  break 
For  the  girl  I  left  be-hind  me.'  " 

The  girl  he  left  behind  him?  Biddy!  — 
Biddy  befooled  and  beguiled  at  home  !  Ho, 
Ho !  He  put  his  hands  on  his  knees  and 
laughed  down  at  the  road. 

Only  a  shop  here  and  there  in  Bunn  was 
open.  The  air  was  heavy  with  fresh  peat- 
smoke.  Slatternly  women  came  to  the  doors 
and  blinked  at  Shan  ;  their  husbands,  lounging 
and  smoking  against  the  walls,  gave  him  good- 
day.  He  answered  shortly  and  quickened  his 
pace.  His  mind  was  quite  fixed  that,  whatever 
befell,  Bunn  town  should  see  nothing  of  his 
diversion.  So,  keeping  his  face  firmly  from 
the  public  houses,  he  walked  steadily  up  the 


Shan's  Diversion.  103 

middle  of  the  street,  and  with  the  gold  tight  in 
his  hand  made  straight  for  the  railway  station. 
He  would  take  the  train  to  Clogheen  and  there 
divert  himself.  He  would  have  a  good  dinner, 
two  bottles  of  stout  —  not  a  drop  more,  not 
one  ;  buy  a  red  pocket-handkerchief  for  himself 
and  a  new  night-cap  for  Biddy;  take  the  one 
o'clock  train  back,  buy  his  shovel,  go  straight 
home  and  take  meekly  whatever  might  come. 
Heavens  above !  what  a  day  he  would  have  ! 
The  grandest  for  twenty  long  years:  a  whole 
day  to  himself  —  plenty  of  money  —  a  good 
dinner  —  By  the  King ! 

He  was  passing  the  fair  green  and  in  sight  of 
the  station.  A  whistle  sounded;  he  began  to 
run  ;  whoof,  ivhoof,  went  the  engine :  Shan  had 
missed  his  train. 

He  sat  down  on  the  ditch  and  mopped  his 
face.  Och,  och  !  the  poor  luck  he  had.  What 
could  he  do  ?  The  next  train  did  not  start  till 
mid-day  —  och,  och  !  What  could  he  do  ?  go 
home  and  toil  all  day  ?  He  pulled  his  hat  off,  and 
with  an  oath  dashed  it  on  the  road.  The  morn- 
ing freshness  had  sped ;  not  a  bird  sang  in  the 
hedges ;  the  sky  above  laughed  savagely  down. 
Go  back  home  !  Leave  diversion  behind  and 


iO4  Shan's  Diversion. 

drudge  through  a  whole  weary  day  !  One  min- 
ute late,  only  one.  Ah  !  might  the  divil  swamp 
the  train. 

He  rose,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  feeling  al- 
most inclined  to  beat  his  disappointed  head 
against  the  wall,  made  for  the  town.  .  .  .  One 
minute  late  —  one  —  one.  .  .  .  The  bottles  in 
the  window  of  the  hotel  parlour  caught  his  eye 
and  gleamed  comfort  upon  him ;  he  stopped, 
hesitated,  went  to  the  door,  turned  back,  turned 
again  and  went  with  a  rush  through  the  door 
way. 

An  hour  went  and  left  Shan  lighter  in  pocket 
and  head ;  the  second  saw  him  waxed  fervid, 
shouting  patriotism,  wisdom,  treason  across  the 
table  at  his  friend  the  town  butcher.  Another 
friend  or  two  joined  them.  Ah!  he  was  the 
boy  knew  a  trifle ;  he  was  the  boy  knew  how  to 
treat  a  friend ;  name  their  drink,  name  their 
drink  ! 

By  this,  only  for  fate,  Shan's  diversion  in 
Clogheen  would  have  been  in  full  swing.  Biddy 
at  home  was  expecting  him.  Ah  !  divil  cared ; 
more  whisky  there !  Another  hour  passed. 
Shan's  head  was  reeling ;  his  mood  verging  on 
the  quarrelsome.  The  butcher  gave  him  the 


Shan's  Diversion.  105 

lie ;  got  it  back ;  answered  brutally.  Shan  rose 
to  fight,  and  the  next  moment  was  out  in  the 
street  storming  at  the  door. 

A  crowd  flew  together.  Shan  opened  his 
arms  and  appealed  for  justice.  He  had  been 
robbed,  insulted.  "Aw  yis,"  thought  Bunn 
town,  "  aw  yis,  an'  so  do  lots  more  get  insulted 
when  they  take  drink  on  an  empty  stomach. 
An*  Shan  Grogan  of  all  men,  too !  an  easy- 
goin'  harmless, — whisht!  The  police!  .  .  . 
Run,  Shan,  run !  .  .  .  Run,  Shan ;  we'  re  for 
ye,  me  boy  !  " 

Shan  stood  firm.  The  police  were  the  men 
he  wanted.  He  had  been  insulted,  robbed. 
"  Go  home"  they  said ;  did  they  say  "  Go 
home "  f  What !  they  refused  to  hear  him  ? 
They  refused  to  see  justice  done  ?  Ah !  the 
blood-thirsty  renegades,  the  black-hearted  cut- 
throats !  .  .  .  Let  them  dare  touch  him ! 
Whew-w-ivj  he  defied  them !  .  .  . 

Bunn  town  cheered  Shan  as  the  police  closed. 
He  hit  out  right  and  left ;  then  broke  through 
the  warring  crowd  and  made  down  hill  towards 
the  river. 

"  Run,  Shan ;  run,  ye  boy,  ye,"  cried  Bunn  ; 
and  backed  its  voice  by  repeated  efforts  to 


io6  Shan's  Diversion. 

stop  the  career  of  the  law.  No  use !  Re-en- 
forcements hurried  out ;  the  handcuffs  were  as 
good  as  on  Shan's  wrists.  He  reached  the 
bridge  panting  and  weary.  Suddenly  he  reeled 
and  fell  heavily  against  the  parapet.  Behind 
him  were  the  police,  angry  and  remorseless; 
before  him  stood  a  woman  with  her  hands 
raised  and  her  face  big  with  horror  and  surprise. 

The  police  ran  on  ;  Bunn  town  stopped  dead. 

"Aw,  aw,"  went  up  the  voices.  "Aw,  aw! 
Be  the  Lord,  but  it  V  Biddy  I " 

Well,  when  a  man  hits  the  police  he  pays  for 
his  sport ;  and  Shan  Grogan  may  thank  his 
luck,  and  the  tearful  pleading  of  his  wife,  and 
the  eager  testimony  of  his  friends  and  neigh- 
bours, that  the  price  he  paid  for  the  one  diversion 
of  his  married  life  was  no  more  than  a  night  in 
the  cells,  and  all  but  a  shilling  or  two  of  the 
little  hoard  which  many  months  of  striving 
(and  the  kindness  of  a  brother)  had  gathered 
between  the  side-wall  and  the  thatch  of  his 
little  cottage  in  Bilboa. 


Th'  Quid  Boy. 


Th'  Quid  Boy. 


BELOW  in  the  kitchen  the  plebeians  were  mak- 
ing merry  with  quip  and  crank,  pipe  and  glass, 
as  they  sat  round  the  walls  and  here  and  there 
over  the  floor  in  the  warmth  of  the  great  peat 
fire ;  their  laughter  and  chatter  (subdued  though 
it  was,  or  tried  to  be)  was  heard  distinctly  above 
in  the  little  parlour,  where  round  a  well-spread 
table  sat  a  select  company,  —  the  elite  of  the 
wake,  you  might  say,  —  gravely  stirring  their 
tea,  eating  their  ham,  discoursing  on  the  merits 
and  virtues  (now,  many  of  them,  first  brought 
to  light)  of  the  man  who  ofttimes  had  made 
merry  at  that  very  table  and  now  lay  stark  and 
lonely  in  a  room  beyond  the  kitchen. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  sobbed  the  widow  from  her  place 
behind  the  teacups,  "it's  God's  truth  —  he 
was  the  generous  heart  an'  the  tender — och  ! 
the  heart  av  a  child ! "  The  spoons  clinked 


no  Th*  Quid  Boy. 

dolefully  round  the  cups;  the  men  solemnly 
wagged  their  heads ;  the  women  sniffed,  and,  to 
conquer  emotion,  tried  buttered  toast. 

"  How  often  in  this  very  room,"  the  widow 
went  on,  "did  I  hear  him  spake  the  word  —  ay, 
ay  !  An'  't  was  the  great  gift  o'  prayer  he  had. 
Ah,  ye  all  know  it !  " 

"  Ay,  ay,"  went  the  voices  ;  "  we  do,  we  do ; 
't  was  powerful,  powerful ! " 

"  An'  now  he 's  tuk  from  us  —  tuk,  tuk," 
cried  the  widow ;  "  gone  an'  left  us  to  struggle 
wi'  Satan  —  Ah,  dear,  dear !  " 

The  men  were  bent  over  their  plates,  the 
women  biting  their  lips ;  it  was  blessed  relief 
when  the  hard,  level  voice  of  Red  John  went 
out  through  the  doleful  assembly. 

"It's  truth  ye  say,  ma'am,"  said  John,  "an' 
may  your  man  be  safe  in  glory  ('  Amen, 
Amen?  went  the  voices)  ;  but  for  yourself  have 
no  fear  of  Satan  an'  all  his  works.  Next  time 
he  makes  bold  to  struggle  wi'  ye,  just  ax  if  he 
knows  Red  John  —  that  '11  settle  him." 

With  one  accord  all  eyes  were  raised  and 
turned  wonderingly  towards  the  bottom  of  the 
table,  where,  one  hand  thrust  carelessly  into  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  the  other  idly  playing  with 


Th'  Quid  Boy.  1 1 1 

his  knife,  sat  Red  John  —  a  big  man,  he  was, 
red-headed,  and  with  a  strong,  impassive  face. 

"  You  're  all  wonderin'  ?  "  he  went  on,  raising 
his  eyes.  "  Well,  ye  need  n't.  I  say  to  ye  all 
once  more  :  next  time  Satan  tries  strugglin'  just 
mention  me  —  that  '11  finish  him." 

Swiftly  vanished  sorrow  and  dole ;  the  men 
found  their  big  coarse  voices ;  the  women 
pocketed  their  handkerchiefs ;  all,  even  the 
widow  herself,  called  on  John  to  explain. 

"  Ye  mean  to  say,  ye  niver  heard  ?  "  asked 
John.  "No?  Well,  well  —  such  is  life;  an' 
meself  hes  told  the  story  a  score  o'  times.  No 
odds  !  Here  ye  are  ;  an'  mind,"  he  added,  shak- 
ing his  finger,  "no  interruptions,  an'  no  sayin' 
I  'm  a  liar  when  I  'm  done  ...  Of  course, 
ma'am,  of  course  I  '11  wait  a  minute  in  welcome ; 
an'  just  ax  them  down  there  to  keep  their  bull's 
voices  quiet.  Ye  know,"  he  went  on  as  the 
widow  went  out  for  a  moment  (carrying  tobacco, 
or  a  bottle,  or  something,  for  the  plebeians  in  the 
kitchen),  "  it  '11  niver  do  to  let  the  poor  thing 
fret.  Och,  no,  an'  there 's  nothing  like  a  story 
to  keep  the  heart  from  care  ....  Back  again, 
ma'am  !  Well,  then,  't  was  like  this : 

"  One  day  —  ay,  years   ago  —  word  came  to 


H2  Th'  Quid  Boy. 

me  that  Long  Bob  was  runnin'  a  brewin'  o' 
poteen.  Now,  when  Long  Bob  brews  I  'm  off ; 
for  let  him  use  treacle,  or  malt,  or  whatever  he 
chooses,  there 's  no  man  these  parts  (an'  I  've 
interviewed  a  few)  can  make  stuff  to  grip  your 
tongue  like  he  can.  No  matter.  Soon  as  I 
heard  word,  off  I  went,  for  I  wanted  no  dregs ; 
an'  after  a  three-mile  pull  in  the  cot  at  last 
came  to  a  wee  island  out  in  the  lake ;  an'  there, 
in  the  middle  o'  the  scrub  an'  stones,  was  me 
darlint  still  firm'  away ;  an'  round  it  a  parcel  o' 
—  Well,  never  mind,  there  was  more  than  one 
there  I  knew,  an'  all  made  me  welcome.  Ah ! 
't  was  great  stuff  that  —  with  a  whiff  off  it  like 
the  middle  o'  a  hay-stack,  an'  not  a  bite  in  a 
gallon  of  it.  Och,  och,  ma'am,  is  there  any- 
thing behind  ye  there  in  the  press  ?  Sure  a 
toothful  'd  send  the  words  flowin'  out  o'  me.  .  .  . 
That 's  right,  that 's  right.  Harros !  Now, 
now !  only  a  toothful,  I  said,  ma'am  ;  well,  so  be 
it.  I  '11  do  me  endeavours.  Here 's  to  ye  all. 

"  Well,"  John  went  on,  when  the  company 
had  drank  the  widow's  health  and  wished  her 
long  life,  "  I  pass  by  all  that  happened  there, 
just  sayin'  that  we  had  great  times,  an'  that 
when  about  dusk  I  set  out  for  home  I  held  a 


Th'  Quid  Boy.  113 

tidy  sup  besides  the  two  lemonade  bottles  full 
in  me  tail  pocket.  It  was  a  cowld  night,  an'  ye 
know  it 's  lonesome  work  draggin'  a  cot  about 
the  lake  ;  so  I  '11  not  deny  but  mebbe  I  did  wet 
my  lips  once  or  twice  on  the  way ;  an'  I  '11 
acknowledge  straight  that  when  I  landed  it  took 
a  good  swig  to  take  the  stiffness  out  o'  my 
joints.  But  mark  me,  ma'am,  an'  all  o'  ye,  ye 
must  n't  run  away  wi'  the  notion  that  I  was 
fuddled;  I  held  my  share,  but  I  was  as  steady 
on  my  pins  when  I  stepped  out  home  as  I  am 
the  night,  an'  as  clear  in  the  head  as  yourself, 
ma'am ;  long  life  to  ye  an'  your  very  good 
health.  .  .  .  '  Me  smilitf  little  Cruiskeen  laun, 
laun,  laun?  sang  John  in  chorus  with  the  plebe- 
ians in  the  kitchen,  beating  time  with  his  tumbler 
on  the  table ;  '  me  smilitf  lit-tle  Cruiskeen 
LAUN  ! ' 

"  'T  was  about  eleven  o'clock  —  more  or  less 
I  '11  not  say,  as  I  'm  strivin'  for  the  truth,  when 
I  got  home.  Mary  and  the  childer  were  all  in 
bed,  an'  there  was  a  glimmer  in  the  lamp,  an'  a 
pot  o'  porridge  waitin'  for  me  over  a  snug  fire ; 
so  down  I  sits  an'  makes  me  supper,  then  lights 
the  pipe  and  was  goin'  over  (meanin'  to  make 
myself  comfortable)  to  hang  me  coat  on  the 
8 


114  Th'  Ould  Boy- 

back  o'  the  door  when  badness  to  me  if  I  did  n't 
catch  sight  o'  the  neck  o'  a  bottle  stickin'  out 
o'  the  tail  pocket.  '  Och,  och,'  says  I,  scratch- 
in'  my  head,  'but  it's  the  sore  temptation  — 
och,  och  !  I  wonder  now  would  a  wee  sup 
hurt  one.'  An'  afore  I  could  make  up  my 
mind  the  cork  was  out  o'  the  bottle,  and  with 
some  o'  the  poteen  in  a  mug  I  was  over  by  the 
dresser  liftin'  a  sup  o'  water  out  of  a  can  that 
stood  on  the  floor. 

"  Now  you  '11  attend  to  this,  ma'am,  an'  the  rest 
o'ye  :  for  it's  here  the  fun  began,  an'  it's  here 
I  '11  be  truthfuller  than  ever.  Just  as  I  was 
stoopin'  to  get  the  water,  there  was  a  shakin'  in 
the  house,  an'  a  blue  flash  that  kind  o'  dazzled 
me,  an'  with  that  I  turns  round  sharp  —  when 
lo  an'  behold  ye !  there  sittin'  by  the  fire,  wi' 
his  legs  crossed  an'  him  lookin'  straight  at  me, 
was  as  fine  a  lookin'  gentleman  as  ever  I 
clapped  eyes  on.  All  dressed  in  black  he  was, 
wi'  a  big  cloak  fallin'  to  the  ground,  an'  a  top 
hat,  if  ye  please  ;  an'  his  hair  black,  an'  his  face 
shaved,  an'  sorrow  a  smell  o'  jewellery  on  his 
person.  '  Arrah,  Lord  save  us,'  says  I  to  my- 
self, '  who  are  ye  at  all,  an'  where  did  ye  come 
from? '  An'  somehow  the  way  he  sat  there  that 


Th'  Quid  Boy.  115 

cool  an'  the  di-vilish  way  he  looked  at  me  set 
me  shakin' :  if  it  had  n't  been  for  the  drop  in  the 
mug  I  'd  ha'  dropped  on  the  floor.  But  that 
gave  me  courage,  an'  wi'  that  I  minded  me 
manners  an'  speaks  out.  '  Good  evenin',  sir,' 
says  I ;  'it's  pretty  late  ye '11  be ?  '  He  looked 
straight  at  me,  keepin'  his  legs  crossed,  an' 
not  one  word  he  answered.  Then,  thinkin* 
maybe  he  was  hard  o'  hearin',  I  speaks  again. 
'  Good  evenin',  sir,'  says  I ;  '  is  it  missed  your 
way  ye  have  th'  night  ? '  But  sorrow  a  word ; 
there  he  sat  in  the  chair,  —  just  as  you  are 
yourself,  ma'am,  beggin'  pardon  an'  meanin'  no 
comparisons,  —  an'  never  moved  hand  or  foot 
or  budged  a  lip.  So  I  scratched  my  head  an' 
cast  about  what  I  was  to  do ;  I  could  n't  keep 
standin'  there  like  a  fool  an'  I  was  afraid  to 
move.  '  What  in  glory,'  thinks  I,  '  am  I  to 
do  ?  '  Then  all  of  a  sudden  the  thought  struck 
me;  an'  round  I  turns  to  the  coat  hangin'  on 
the  back  o'  the  door  an'  takes  th'  other 
lemonade  bottle  out  o'  the  pocket. 

"  '  Axin'  your  pardon,  sir ; '  says  I,  '  but  if  it 's 
not  makin'  bold  could  I  offer  ye  the  least  taste  just 
to  keep  the  raw  from  your  bones  ?  '  Not  a  word 
he  answered;  but,  thinks  I,  there's  a  twinkle  in 


n6  TV  Quid  Boy. 

your  eye,  my  boy,  that  looks  as  if  you  'd  be 
partial  to  a  drop :  an'  ye  all  know  a  nod 's  as 
good  as  a  wink  to  a  blind  horse.  So,  keepin'  an 
eye  on  him  over  me  shoulder,  I  turned  an'  got 
another  mug  off  the  dresser,  an'  mixin'  a  tidy 
dose  I  went  across  the  floor  an'  offered  it  t' 
him.  Like  a  lamb,  sirs,  he  took  it;  gulped  it 
down  an'  smacked  his  lips  on  the  last  drop. 
But  see  here,  ma'am,  may  I  never  see  light 
if  the  draught  didn't  turn  into  blue  blazes  in 
his  throat.  Ye  laugh !  Well,  don't  then  if  it 
is  n't  at  your  own  ignorance.  Laugh !  troth 
most  o'  ye  '11  see  worse  than  that  after  ye  die ;  " 
and  John  winked  over  his  glass  at  the  company. 
"Well,  'thunder  an'  turf,'  says  I  to  meself; 
'  what  kind  of  a  customer  is  this  ?  Sure  if  he  'd 
be  sociable  even,  it  'd  not  be  so  bad.  How- 
somed'er,'  says  I,  '  I  '11  make  myself  at  home 
by  my  own  fire,'  an'  down  I  plops  on  a  stool 
fornenst  him,  pulls  out  the  cutty,  fills  it  an' 
lights  up.  After  a  couple  o'  whiffs  I  wipes  the 
shank  on  my  coat  an'  offers  it  to  him.  '  Mebbe 
you'd  like  a  draw?'  says  I,  holdin'  the  cutty 
to  him  across  the  hearth ;  '  people  these  parts 
say  it  goes  well  wi'  pateen.'  He  reached 
out  an'  took  it,  knocked  the  ashes  off  it,  an'  put 


Th'  Quid  Boy.  117 

it  in  his  mouth.  May  death  have  me,  ma'am,  if 
the  sight  did  n't  parch  my  tongue !  Every 
whiff  o'  him  was  a  blue  strame  o'  fire,  an'  ye 
could  see  blue  fire  dancin'  over  the  pipe,  an'  the 
eyes  o'  him  glared  like  a  cat's  in  the  dark. 
An'  he  never  moved  a  limb ;  just  sat  there  as 
unconcerned  as  ever  in  his  black  suit,  movin'  his 
lips  an'  whiffin'  out  them  infernal  blue  strames. 
'  Ah,  great  powers  ! '  says  I  ;  '  what  are  ye  at  all, 
at  all  ?  Why  are  ye  here  ?  Why  are  ye  here  ?  ' 
An'  with  that  —  for  I  was  frightened  powerful  — 
I  tumbled  off  the  stool,  an'  with  an  odious 
clatter  went  crash  among  the  pots  an'  pot 
hooks.  .  .  .  An'  the  next  thing  I  hears  is  Mary 
gettin'  out  o'  bed  in  the  room  above  an'  liftin' 
the  latch  to  come  an'  see  what  was  ep. 

"  She  drew  back  immediately  she  seen  some- 
one wi'  me  —  by  good  luck  the  gentleman  had 
his  back  to  her ;  an'  in  a  minute  or  two  down 
she  comes  in  her  petticoat  —  savin'  your  pres- 
ence, ladies  all;  an'  wi'  a  shawl  round  her 
shoulders. 

"  '  What 's  the  matter,  John  ? '  says  she,  kind 
of  frightened  like,  an'  standin'  behind  the  boy-o 
sittin'  there  like  a  graven  image  smokin'  away. 

" « Nothin', '  says  I. 


n8  Th' Quid  Boy. 

" '  But  I  was  woke  out  o'  me  sleep  wi'  a 
shockin'  clatter,'  says  she. 

" '  Ye  were,'  says  I,  '  right  enough.  I 
stumbled  over  the  pot  there.' 

"  '  You  're  late,'  says  she. 

"'I  am,'  says  I. 

"  '  What  kept  ye  ? '   says  she. 

'"Aw,  nothin'  particular,'  says  I.  'Just 
made  a  Kaley  or  two.  The  gentleman  there 
lost  his  way  in  the  bog  an'  he  's  warmin'  himself 
before  he  starts  out  again.' 

"  All  the  time  I  was  winkin'  at  Mary  to  speak 
to  the  boy-o ;  for  I  thought  it  powerful  un- 
genteel  to  stand  there  wi'out  addressin'  him. 
At  last,  she  comes  round,  an'  drops  a  curtsey, 
an'  says  she  in  a  haltin'  kind  o'  way,  not  a  bit 
like  Mary's  usual  way  o'  talkin',  for,  as  ye  all 
know,  she 's  blessed  wi'  the  gift  o'  the  gab  : 
4  Savin'  your  presence,  sir,'  says  she,  'for 
appearin' in  these  duds  afore  ye,  but  I — was 
—  loath  —  to  wait  long  —  for  I  was  a  —  afraid 
some  —  somethin'  had  ha  —  happened  when  I 
heard  —  heard  — ' 

"  Not  another  word  could  she  get  out ;  I 
could  see  her  eyes  openin'  wide,  an'  her  jaw 
droppin',  an'  she  fell  a-tremblin'.  For  the  boy-o 


Th'  Quid  Boy.  119 

just  riz  his  eyes  'n  looked  at  her,  kept  them  hard 
on  her,  an'  never  moved  a  muscle,  nor  spoke  a 
word,  nor  stopped  puffin'  blue  blazes  out  o'  my 
ould  cutty. 

"  All  of  a  sudden  Mary  turns  to  me,  white  as 
a  corpse,  an'  says  she  :  '  God  in  Heaven  !  John 
Graham,  who  's  this  ?  an'  what 's  goin'  to  happen 
to  us  at  all,  at  all  ?  ' 

"  I  could  n't  answer  ;  an'  I  thought  Mary  was 
goin'  into  a  fit. 

" '  Look  at  the  moath  o'  him,'  shouts  she ; 
'  blue  flames  comin'  out  o'  it !  An'  his  nose  !  An' 
look  at  his  eyes !  An'  —  Aw  God  help  us  ! '  she 
screeched ;  '  look  at  his  feet !  —  cloots,  cloots, 
cloots  !  —  //  's  the  divil  himself! ' 

"  An'  with  that  she  tears  from  the  kitchen  up 
into  her  room  an'  bolts  the  door. 

"  I  was  fair  flabbergasted.  What  could  I  do  ? 
Thinks  I,  what  brings  th'  ould  boy  to  my  fire- 
side ?  I  rubs  my  head  an'  looks  hard  at  him ;  then 
gets  up,  an'  creepin'  to  the  table  empties  the 
lemonade  bottle  down  my  throat.  Boys  !  but 
poteen  's  the  darlint  stuff;  it  put  a  new  heart  in 
me,  an'  cleared  my  head,  an'  made  me  feel  fit  to 
fight  twenty  divils. 

"  Off  I  peels  my  waistcoat ;  tucks  up  my  shirt 


120  Th'  Quid  Boy. 

sleeves ;  spits  on  my  hands ;  then  up  I  steps  to 
Mister  Satan. 

"  '  Ye  ould  ragamuffin,'  says  I,  an'  whacks  my 
fist,  '  what  brings  ye  roamin'  like  a  roarin'  lion 
to  decent  Protestan'  houses  ?  Did  ye  ever  hear 
tell  o'  Red  John  Graham,' says  I,  'that  hits  man 
or  divil  like  the  kick  o'  a  horse  ?  Look  at  the 
face  o'  him  then,'  an'  I  looks  straight  at  him ; 
'look  at  him,'  says  I,  '  ye  tarnation  ould  scare- 
crow ;  look  an'  trimble,  Mister  Beelzebub ! 
Ye  're  in  the  wrong  house  this  night,  ye  flamin' 
ould  tinker  ye,'  says  I.  '  Your  kind  is  n't  here, 
Apollyon.  I  'm  Red  John,  my  boy,  that  fears 
neither  man  nor  divil.  Let  me  at  your  face,' 
says  I ;  an'  from  the  bedroom  comes  Mary's 
voice  shoutin'  '  Harroo,  John  /  pelt  the  ould 
•vagabone;  pepper  him,  John.  '  '  I  -will,  Mary,' 
I  shouts,  '  I  will —  Come  out !  —  stand  up  !  — 
give  me  three  minutes  at  your  wizened  counte- 
nance, till  I  leave  ye  a  laughin'  stock  for  your 
own  angels ! ' 

"  Then  I  made  a  grab,"  shouted  John,  knock- 
ing his  chair  over  as  he  jumped  up,  and  upsetting 
his  tumbler  as  he  made  a  false  catch  at  his 
neighbour's  hair  ;  "  I  made  a  grab  at  the  head 
o'  him,  just  like  that.  '  Come  out ! '  roars  I ; 


Th'  Quid  Boy.  121 

'  come  out  an1  be  kilt !  '  An'  with  the  word  I  fell 
on  my  head  in  the  corner  over  an  empty  chair." 

"  Gone  ?  "  cried  the  widow.    "  He  was  gone  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  answered  John ;  "  when  I  came  to 
there  was  no  one  there  but  Mary  flingin'  water 
over  me  an'  roarin'  '  Meila  Murther.'  " 

"  Prime,"  went  up  the  voices.  "  Prime." 
"  Bully  for  you,  John ! "  "  Tight  boy,  John  : " 
then  from  halfway  down  the  table  came  the 
voice  of  a  sceptic. 

"  Well,"  it  said,  "  in  my  own  experience  I  Ve 
known  poteen  do  quare  things  ;  but  never,  before 
this  night,  did  I  hold  it  responsible  for  makin' 
a  man  the  biggest  liar  at  a  wake.  Is  there  no 
one  else  ?  Och  !  is  there  no  one  else  ?  Can  no 
one  tell  a  sober  lie  for  a  change  ?  " 

John  leant  over  the  table  towards  the  sceptic. 

"  Young  man,"  he  said,  "  ye  call  me  a  liar  an' 
ye  say  I  was  drunk.  Your  years  an'  the  house 
we  're  in  '11  excuse  ye  this  time  ;  but  never  again, 
mind,  never  again.  An'  if  you  or  any  other 
person  here  repeats  such  things,  I  '11  take  ye 
home,  an'  prove  my  words  by  sittin'  ye  in  the 
very  chair  the  ould  boy  sat  in  —  an'  I  '11  give  ye 
the  wiggin'  I  meant  for  him,  into  the  bargain." 


Her  Soger  Boy. 


Her  Soger  Boy. 


IN  Lismahee  workhouse  there  is  a  special  ward 
to  which  are  assigned  most  of  those  local  unfor- 
tunates whose  wits  God  has  taken  from  them, 
leaving  them  mere  life,  and  harmless  strength, 
and  the  blank  innocence  of  second  childhood ; 
and  it  was  there,  one  day,  that  I  first  saw 
old  Debbie  Chance.  A  little  wizened  body  she 
was,  with  gray  hair  hanging  in  loose  ringlets 
upon  her  shoulders,  large  gray  eyes,  a  smooth 
high  forehead,  and  a  face  almost  ethereal  in 
its  blank  delicacy.  One's  eyes  fixed  her  at 
once,  in  the  long  bare  room,  as  she  sat  bolt 
upright  in  her  bed  supping  thin  gruel  from  a  blue 
and  white  basin ;  she  looked  such  a  simple  old 
child ;  she  was  so  clean  and  neat,  so  harmlessly 
fragile  in  face  and  figure,  as  her  spoon,  poised 
delicately  between  finger  and  thumb,  made  a 
dainty  curve  from  bowl  to  mouth,  that  one  could 


126  Her  Soger  Boy. 

not  forbear  pausing  at  her  bed-foot  the  better  to 
have  pleasure  in  the  sight  of  her.  To  nothing 
could  I  compare  her  but  a  withered  flower  ;  her 
old  beauty  attracted  me  strangely,  and  I  was 
just  about  to  step  to  her  side,  when  suddenly  her 
spoon  clattered  into  the  basin,  her  fore-finger 
shot  out  towards  me,  and  her  eyes  met  mine 
with  a  quick,  tense  stare  of  witless  terror.  Like 
the  beady  eyes  of  a  snake  hers  now  were ;  before 
them  and  the  steady  insistence  of  her  levelled 
finger,  I  stepped  hurriedly  back  and  clutched 
the  arm  of  my  friend  the  Doctor.  Almost  did  I 
expect  her  to  spring  at  me ;  and  I  was  turning 
to  go,  when  sharply  (with  a  noise  like  the  burst- 
ing of  a  toy  balloon)  she  clicked  her  tongue 
against  her  palate  and  her  finger  shot  straight 
for  me  again.  I  moved  a  step,  the  finger 
followed  me;  another  step,  and  her  tongue 
clicked  again  as  her  finger  darted;  another  step, 
and  the  spoon  was  once  more  carrying  its  little 
mouthfuls  of  gruel,  and  Debbie  was  herself 
again,  and  I  found  myself  breathing. 

"  Routed,  "  said  the  Doctor,  with  a  laugh,  as 
we  passed  from  the  ward.  "  Raked  fore  and 
aft!" 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  you  're  right,  Doctor.    Mercy ! 


Her  Soger  Boy.  127 

how  my  heart  turned  over  —  just  as  though  I 
had  been  standing  before  a  levelled  gun.  But  — 
but  does  the  old  lady  always  give  visitors  such 
a  reception  ?  " 

"  Only  inquisitive  visitors." 

"  Ah  !       And  why  does  she  do  it,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  God  knows,  my  son  ;   I  don't." 

"  It 's  her  madness  of  course  —  some  delusion 
or  other  of  her  mind  ?  " 

"  Mind  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  and  laughed  again. 
"  My  dear  fellow,  she  has  none  —  not  so  much 
as  a  six  weeks'  baby.  She 's  an  empty  house  — 
an  empty  house." 

"  But  wait,  Doctor,"  I  persisted  ;  "  she  can't  be 
quite  empty.  What  prompted  her  to  see  me, 
to  shoot  her  finger  at  me,  to  pop  her  tongue  in 
that  strange  fashion?  Surely  she  had  some 
reason  —  ?  " 

"  She  has  no  reason,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  What 
you  saw  her  do  is  as  purely  mechanical  an  action 
as  the  handling  her  porridge  spoon.  Both  for 
her  may  mean  something  or  mean  nothing ;  for 
me,  that  particular  one  means  simply  that  she 
is  a  harmless  lunatic." 

"  And  there  's  no  story,  no  event  of  her  life 
which  might  explain  .  .  .  ?  " 


128  Her  Soger  Boy. 

"  Ah,  now  you  touch  bottom,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor, "  now  you  're  talking,  my  boy.  Yes,  there  is 
a  story,  and  no  bad  one  either.  But,  look  here, 
it 's  Board  day  and  I  'm  due  with  my  report ;  so, 
if  you're  very  anxious  for  information  about 
old  Debbie,  just  step  down  the  lawn  there  to  the 
pump  house ;  there  you  '11  find  Solomon  Gray, 
and  if  he  can't  satisfy  you  no  man  can.  Away 
now  ;  I  '11  give  you  half  an  hour." 

William  Gray  was  an  Ancient  and  a  pauper, 
very  withered,  very  bald,  a  relic  of  old  decency. 
In  the  long  ago  William  had  been  a  man  of 
parts  and  shrewdness,  a  kind  of  hillside  Solomon, 
in  fact  (hence  his  nickname);  now  wisdom  had 
justified  herself,  and  Solomon,  his  old  back 
doubled,  his  old  head  bobbing,  and  his  throat 
venting  dismal  groans,  was  taking  his  weekly 
turn  at  the  wheel  of  the  workhouse  pump,  and 
(so  it  seemed  to  me)  knowingly  allowing  his 
fellow  Ancient  at  the  opposite  handle  to  do  more 
than  his  rightful  share. 

However,  that  was  his  affair,  not  mine  ;  so  I 
sidled  into  the  pump-house,  and,  facing  Solomon, 
gave  him  the  time  of  day.  Once  or  twice  he 
looked  at  me  between  his  arms  as  his  hands  went 
up,  once  or  twice  he  groaned  exceedingly  ;  then  : 


Her  Soger  Boy.  129 

"  Aisy,  Thomas,"  he  called,  and  as  the  pump 
stopped :  "  Good  mornin'  ioyou,  sir.  It 's  good 
weather." 

"  It  is,  Mr.  Gray,"  I  answered. 

"  Well,  dear  be  thanked,"  he  said,  and  heavily 
sighed,  "  for  the  chance  to  stretch  me  back.  A 
nice  kind  o'  work  they  give  one  these  parts  in 
his  ould  age  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Mr.  Gray.  By  the  way,  I  Ve 
just  come  to  speak  a  while  with  you.  Dr. 
Sharp  —  " 

"Ay,"  said  he;  "but  tell  me  now  ha'  ye  a 
pipe  o'  tabaccy  wi'  ye  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  I'm  afraid  I  have  n't ;  but  —  " 
and  I  pulled  out  a  cigar  —  "  if  this  will  serve  you 
you  are  welcome  to  it." 

"  It 's  'baccy,  is  n't  it  ?  "  he  asked,  and  taking 
the  cigar  in  his  withered  claw  vigorously  sniffed 
at  it.  "  Ay  —  it  '11  do,"  said  he,  and  bringing 
forth  his  black  clay  pipe  and  an  old  knife,  began 
to  whittle  my  havannah  into  his  fist. 

"  It 's  about  old  Deborah  Chance  I  've  come 
to  ask  you,  Mr.  Gray,"  I  went  on,  when  the  pipe 
was  filled  and  patiently  Solomon  was  striving  to 
strike  a  match  on  its  bowl.  "  Do  you  know  her? 
rather,  did  you  know  her  before  she  came  to  her 
9 


1 30  Her  Soger  Boy. 

present  pitiable  state  ?  And  if  you  did,  can  you 
tell  me  why  she  lost  her  mind,  and  how,  and  —  ?  " 

"  And  wherefore  ?  "  interrupted  Solomon,  as 
sitting  down  on  the  wheel-handle  he  doubled 
over  his  knees  and  fell  to  sucking  at  his  pipe. 
"  Yis,  an'  wherefore,  as  the  Acts  o'  Parlemint 
put  it.  Ay,  I  do  know  somethin'  of  her  —  But 
tell  me,"  said  he,  and  looked  knowingly  up  at  me 
(even  as  a  sparrow  cocks  its  eye  at  the  sky), 
"  suppose  the  master  comes  an'  finds  me  con- 
fabbin'  wi'  ye,  who  '11  stand  atween  us  ?  " 

"  You  mean,  Mr.  Gray,  that  you  can't  work 
and  talk  at  the  same  time  ?  " 

"I  do  —  I  do  so.  What 's  your  opinion, 
Thomas,  there  beyond  ?  " 

"  I  'm  with  ye,  Solomon,"  croaked  the  other 
Ancient ;  "  mortial  man  could  n't  do  it." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  I,  "very  well,  then;  if 
you  have  anything  to  tell  me  I  '11  answer  for 
your  safety  for  fifteen  minutes.  Will  that  do  ?  " 

"  It  will  maybe,"  said  he,  and  blew  a  puff  of 
smoke  through  the  doorway,  "  an'  if  more's 
wanted  sure  I  can  chance  it."  For  a  while  he 
sat  pondering ;  then  fell  a-mumbling.  "  Debbie 
Chance,  Debbie  Chance,  what  do  I  know  o' 
Debbie  Chance?  Aw  yis;  I  know.  Poor  ould 


Her  Soger  Boy.  131 

Debbie  !  often  me  heart 's  ached  for  ye.  Aw 
yis  —  an'  tell  me,  sir,"  he  said,  and  cocked  his 
eye  at  me  again,  "  what  might  ye  be  givin'  me 
for  this  story  o'  mine  ?  Eh,  mister?" 

Hurriedly  I  pulled  out  a  shilling,  (how  pitiful 
a  reward  —  even  for  wisdom  degraded  and 
degenerate  !)  flashed  it  before  his  eyes ;  and  even 
as  I  pocketed  it  again,  Solomon  straightened 
his  back,  passed  his  pipe  to  his  brother  Ancient, 
and,  throwing  ten  years  off  his  shoulders,  went 
on  very  much  after  this  fashion  :  — 

"  If  you  take  across  the  country  straight  from 
the  gate  below  there  and  follow  your  nose  for 
about  six  miles,  you  '11  come  to  a  wee  town 
called  Knock  —  a  weeny  bit  o'  a  town  with  just 
one  street,  and  a  couple  o'  shops,  and  a  graveyard 
outside  it,  and  a  church,  and  a  schoolhouse, 
and  a  forge ;  with  the  fields  all  round  it,  and 
the  hills  at  the  back,  and  the  road  to  Clogheen 
runnin'  through  it.  That 's  how  I  mind  it,  any- 
way, afore  I  put  on  my  uniform  ;  and  it  was 
like  that  the  time  Debbie  Chance  first  came  to 
it,  and  when  she  left  it,  and  they  tell  me  that 
every  store  in  it  is  the  same  to  this  day. 

"  Well,  now,  if  you  enter  Knock  by  way  o'  the 
Lismahee  road  you  '11  find  that  where  it  cuts  the 


132  Her  Soger  Boy. 

street  there  stands  a  public  house  on  the  left- 
hand  corner,  and  straight  before  you,  t*  other 
side  o'  the  street,  you'll  see  a  wee  thatched 
house  with  a  square  window  in  its  front  and  a 
green  door  wi'  one  stone  step  leading  up  to  it ; 
and  if  you  ax  any  one  to  this  day  where  Debbie 
Chance  used  to  live  they  '11  turn  an'  point  straight 
at  that  very  house.  Yes;  many's  the  time  I  Ve 
been  in  it  myself  (when  I  was  younger  —  och, 
och  !  and  had  an  eye  for  good  looks)  ;  many  's 
the  time  an'  often  I  've  chatted  with  Debbie  in 
her  wee  kitchen ;  an'  often  I  've  stood,  since  she 
met  her  mishap,  lookin'  down  at  that  doorstep 
and  thinkin'  to  myself  what  happened  to  her 
there  years  and  years  ago. 

"  Ay,  it 's  wonderful  how  the  years  go,  sirs ; 
wonderful.  Who  'd  think  that  it  must  be  nigh 
forty  years  since  Debbie  first  came  to  Knock  in 
her  widdy's  weeds,  and  rented  that  wee  house, 
and  set  up  her  huckster's  shop,  and  there  set  to 
workin'  the  skin  off  her  bones  strivin'  to  keep 
the  breath  in  the  bodies  o'  herself  an'  her  son  ? 
Strivin'  ?  'T  was  slavery  she  did,  pure  slavery ; 
but  no  matter,  like  one 's  self,  she  's  restin'  now, 
she 's  restin'  now. 

"  The  first  day  I  seen  her,  I  mind  me,  I  thought 


Her  Soger  Boy.  133 

she  was  as  handsome  a  woman  as  God  ever 
made  —  yes,  and  I  think  so  yet.  Small  she  was, 
but  odious  fine  i'  the  bone,  mindin'  you  of  a 
race  horse  in  its  prime  ;  and  the  hair  of  her  was 
black  as  night  and  as  thick  and  wavy  as  hearse 
plumes ;  an'  to  nothin'  in  this  world  could  you 
compare  the  skin  on  her  but  an  October  apple ; 
and  just  as  much  the  lady  she  was  in  her 
ignorant  countrified  way  as  if  't  was  a  coach 
and  four  she  drove  to  Clogheen  and  not  an 
ass's  cart.  Sure  the  men  raved  about  her  — 
ay,  I  was  taken  that  way  myself  for  a  while, 
and  at  first  the  women  hated  her ;  but  love  or 
hate  was  all  one  to  Debbie  —  a  widdy  woman 
she  was,  with  her  man  dead  in  his  grave  an' 
his  child  to  support,  and  what  one  or  another 
said  about  her  mattered  less  than  the  price  o'  a 
clay  pipe  in  her  windy.  Naw  !  they  might  talk 
an'  talk ;  but  words  never  kept  the  bit  from  her 
mouth  or  made  life  the  easier  for  her.  'T  was 
poverty,  sirs,  bitter  poverty  that  lay  upon  her 
and  crushed  her  down.  Man,  dear!  but  she 
must  ha'  known  the  hard  times  there  behind 
her  bit  of  a  counter,  strivin'  to  turn  a  shillin' 
into  thirteenpence ;  day  in,  day  out,  all  the  year 
long,  servin'  out  her  bits  o'  tabaccy,  an'  ounces 


134  Her  Soger  Boy. 

o'  tay,  an'  skeins  o'  wool,  an'  penn'orths  o' 
sweets,  an'  fillin'  up  every  odd  minute  by  knit- 
tin'  socks,  an'  workin'  lace,  an'  mendin'  the 
clothes  o'  the  boy ;  workin'  it  seemed  for  ever 
an*  ever,  Amen.  When  you  rose  in  the  mornin' 
Debbie  was  at  it;  when  you  went  to  bed  her 
candle  was  still  burnin';  go  when  you  would, 
there  she  sat  behind  her  counter  as  clean  as  a 
new  pin  an'  as  bright,  always  wi'  the  ready 
word  for  ye,  and  always  as  cheerful  as  a  lark. 
No  man  ever  heard  her  complain,  or  ax  for 
charity;  and  man  or  woman  never  seen  her 
idle. 

"  Well,  sirs,  time  went  on,  and  Debbie  got 
oulder,  an'  Tim  the  son  grew  up  to  be  a  fine, 
healthy,  stirrin'  chap.  The  life  o'  Knock  he  was, 
him  and  his  curls  an'  blue  eyes,  an'  the  darlint 
surely  o'  his  mother's  heart.  You  could  see 
her  watchin'  him  through  the  sweet  bottles  an' 
fal-lals  in  her  windy  when  he  was  playin'  in  the 
street,  struttin'  up  and  down  wi'  an  ould  tin  can 
for  a  drum  an'  a  little  army  o'  childer  fifin'  an' 
shoutin'  at  his  heels  ;  you  could  see  her  sittin'  on 
the  doorstep  o'  evenin's  teachin'  him  to  read ; 
an',  come  weal  or  woe,  she  always  had  him  well 
dressed  an'  well  shod ;  an'  to  her  last  penny 


Her  Soger  Boy.  135 

she  was  ready  to  give  him  all  the  book  learnin' 
he  could  get.  The  light  o'  her  eye  he  was; 
yes,  the  light  o'  her  eye  an'  the  pride  o'  her 
heart ;  but  about  him  she  had  one  dread  —  that 
he  was  growin'  too  fond  o'  drums  an'  guns  an' 
scarlet-red.  Ay  !  't  was  true  ;  all  he  thought  of 
was  sogers,  sogers.  He  'd  go  ten  miles  to  see 
one ;  every  youngster  in  Knock  he  'd  have 
always  fightin'  an*  stormin'  forts,  an'  chargin' 
like  blazes  down  the  street;  an'  when  Debbie 
'd  see  him  stridin'  about  wi'  his  imitation  sword 
an'  gun,  she  'd  run  an'  catch  him,  an'  drag  him 
in,  an'  fill  his  ears  wi'  the  horrors  o'  war,  an' 
read  about  it  to  him  from  books,  an'  quote  the 
Bible  to  him,  an'  on  her  knees  beg  of  him  never, 
never  to  leave  her  and  go  to  be  shot  in  foreign 
parts.  Aw  the  foolishness  o'  mothers  1  for  all 
that  only  made  him  worse ;  an'  in  the  end  one 
day,  when  his  girth  was  big  enough,  he  slopes 
off ;  an'  next  time  Debbie  seen  him  't  was  in 
scarlet-red. 

"  Then  begins  her  real  trouble  —  God  help 
her!  Woeful  she  was  changed — grown  pale 
an'  fidgety,  an'  eyes  in  her  full  o'  dread.  She 
seemed  to  be  always  prayin' ;  every  day  she  'd 
go  to  the  post-office  to  see  if  the  papers  said 


136  Her  Soger  Boy. 

anything  about  war;  in  church  o'  Sundays, 
when  the  Rector  'd  say,  '  from  war  and  rumours 
of  war,'  Debbie  'd  cry  out :  *  Good  Lord  deliver 
us  '  as  if  her  heart  was  breakin' ;  an'  now  she 
had  only  one  thing  to  live  for  —  to  see  the  day 
when  Tim's  time  was  up  an'  he  was  back  to  her 
safe  an'  sound.  Aw,  sirs,  she  must  ha'  suffered 
hard  those  days,  suffered  odious  wi'  that  dread 
upon  her  that  there  was  noknowin'  when  war  'd 
come  an'  a  bullet  for  her  darlin'. 

"  But  no  bullet  came,  aw  no ;  only  one  day 
home  comes  Tim  in  his  regimentals  an'  tells  her, 
wi'  pride  dancin'  in  his  eyes,  that  his  regiment 
was  leavin'  Clogheen  an'  was  ordered  abrood. 

"  '  Abrood  ?  '  says  Debbie,  an'  gasps  at  the 
word.  '  Abrood  ! '  says  she. 

" «  Yes,  abrood,'  says  Tim ;  an'  goes  on  to  tell 
her  all  about  it ;  about  the  goin'  aboard  a  big 
ship,  an'  crossin'  the  bay  o'  Biscay,  an'  passin' 
Gibraltar,  an'  goin'  through  the  Red  Sea  where 
King  Pharaoh  was  drowned,  an'  on  away  round 
the  world  till  they  came  to  where  the  people 
wore  no  clothes,  an'  the  sun  burnt  you  like  fire, 
an'  there  were  tigers  to  eat  you,  an'  elephants 
to  carry  you,  an'  big  snakes  crawlin'  up  the 
trees,  an'  all  the  wonders  o'  the  world.  '  Aw, 


Her  Soger  Boy.  137 

it  '11  be  great,  mother,'  says  Tim ;  '  sure  I  'm 
longin'  to  see  it  all.' 

" '  Ay,'  says  Debbie,  wi'  a  choke.  '  Ay, 
Tim.' 

"  '  An'  maybe,  mother,'  says  Tim,  '  there  '11  be 
a  chance  o'  fightin'  out  there  wi'  the  darkies,  an' 
then  we  '11  slaughter  them,  an'  I  '11  come  back 
to  ye  wi'  a  medal  on  my  breast,  an'  I  '11  be 
made  a  sergeant,  an'  — ' 

"  But  Debbie  stops  him  and  rises. 

"  '  Tim,'  says  she,  '  sure  you  could  n't  do  it ! 
Aw,  you  could  n't  do  it ! ' 

"  '  What,  mother  ?  '  says  he. 

" '  Sure  you  could  n't  do  it  —  you  could  n't 
leave  me  here  alone  !  Aw  !  I  '11  never  see  you 
again ;  you  '11  be  shot !  Aw,  no,  no,  me  son  !  ' 
Then  Tim  laughs. 

"  '  Ah  whisht,  woman,  dear/  says  he ; '  whisht ! 
Sure  it  '11  only  be  for  a  year  or  two.  I  '11  be 
back  in  no  time  at  all.' 

"  '  You  won't  go,'  cries  Debbie,  an'  falls  on  her 
knees ;  '  you  must  n't.  I  '11  not  let  you.  You  're 
all  I  've  got  in  the  world.  Ah,  no,  Tim.  Stay 
here  wi'  me  an'  I  '11  work  night  an'  day  for  you ; 
I  '11  go  wi'  you  wherever  you  like.  Stay  wi' 
me,  Tim,  me  son  ! ' 


138  Her  Soger  Boy. 

"  '  I  can't,  mother,'  says  he.  '  I  'm  a  soger, 
mother,  an1  must  do  me  duty.  Go  I  must  an' 
go  I  will.' 

" '  You  '11  —  you  '11  leave  me,  Tim  ?  You  '11  go 
to  get  shot,  or  poisoned,  or  stabbed  in  the  back  ? 
You'll—' 

"  '  Ach,  whisht  wi'  ye,  woman,'  says  Tim, 
'  wi'  your  nonsense.  Am  n't  I  a  soger  ?  D'  ye 
see  the  uniform  on  me  ?  Would  you  have  me 
not  see  the  world,  an'  not  have  a  turn  wi'  gun 
an'  bagonet  ?  Ah,  whisht!  Is  it  a  coward 
you  'd  have  me  turn  ? ' 

"  Well,  for  a  while  longer  Debbie  keeps  on, 
beggin'  an'  prayin',  an'  cryin'  her  eyes  out  — 
aw  the  poor  foolish  woman ;  but,  at  last,  seein' 
't  was  all  no  use,  she  rises  from  her  knees, 
wipes  her  eyes,  an'  sits  down  before  the  fire. 
'  Well,  Tim,'  says  she,  '  God's  will  be  done,  an' 
God  protect  ye.' 

" '  Amen,  mother,'  says  Tim,  an'  lights  his 
pipe.  '  Amen ; '  then  puts  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  an',  just  as  if  he  was  viewin'  the  whole 
round  world  in  the  fire,  goes  on  wi'  his  boys' 
chatter  about  all  he  was  goin'  to  do,  an'  see,  an' 
bring  back  wi'  him,  —  shawls  an'  bonnets  for 
the  mother,  an'  monkeys,  an'  parrots,  an'  picters 


Her  Soger  Boy.  139 

o'  foreign  parts,  an'  all  the  rest ;  an'  to  all  o'  it 
Debbie  gives  only  half  an  ear,  for  her  eyes  were 
busy  wi'  Tim's  curls  an'  red  coat,  an'  her  heart 
was  sore,  an'  all  she  could  think  o'  was : 
'  He  '11  be  shot,  he  '11  be  shot  —  How  can  I 
keep  him  ? ' 

"  At  last  she  leans  forward  and  puts  her  hand 
on  the  lad's  arm. 

"'You'll  stay  wi'  me  this  one  night,  Tim?' 
says  she.  '  You  '11  let  your  ould  mother  see 
the  sun  rise  on  ye  once  more  ? ' 

" '  I  will,'  says  Tim  ;  'I  have  leave  to  stay,  an' 
I  will,'  says  he. 

"'Thank  God,'  says  Debbie;  'thank  God!' 
And  from  that  on  she  was  cheerfuller  an'  gave 
full  ear  to  the  boy's  ramblin'  tongue. 

"  Well,  the  night  passed  ;  an'  betimes  the  next 
mornin'  Tim  wakes  up,  an'  after  a  yawn  or  two 
tumbles  out  o'  bed.  He  takes  a  look  out  o'  the 
windy  at  the  mornin',  then  wheels  about  quick 
for  his  regimentals  ;  but  lo  an'  behold  ye  !  not 
a  dud  o'  them  was  to  be  seen,  not  a  dud. 
'  Damme  !  what 's  this? '  says  he,  scratchin'  his 
head.  'What's  this?'  an'  high  an'  low 
searches;  then,  findin'  nothin',  calls  out  for  the 
mother. 


140  Her  Soger   Boy. 

"  '  What  is  it,  Tim,  me  son  ? '  says  she  from 
behind  the  door.  '  What  is  it,  me  son  ?  ' 

"  '  Where  's  me  regimentals  ? '  says  he.  'I 
left  them  on  the  chair  here  last  night,  an'  now 
they  're  gone.' 

"  '  Your  regimentals ! '  says  she.  '  Your  beauti- 
ful red  coat  wi'  the  shinin'  buttons,  an' 
your  — ! ' 

" '  Come,  mother,'  says  Tim,  '  no  foolery  ! 
Where  are  they?' 

" '  Ah  !  it 's  the  hand  o'  God  ! '  cries  she  (the 
poor,  foolish  woman !).  '  Aw,  Tim,  me  son, 
the  Lord's  sent  some  thief  to  — ' 

"  '  Thief  ! '  roars  Tim,  an'  swears  accordin'. 
'  Thief  yourself !  Where  's  me  uniform  ?' 

"  '  Aw,  son  Tim,  son  Tim,'  cries  Debbie,  '  it 's 
the  Lord's  doin' !  But,  Tim,'  calls  she,  '  there  's 
the  Sunday  suit  you  used  to  wear  in  the  press 
by  the  bed ;  put  it  on,  me  son,  an'  come  down 
an'  we  '11  search  for  the  thief.  We  '11  get  the 
police,  Tim.' 

"  So  Tim,  mighty  mad  an'  swearin'  powerful 
(as  sogers  will),  for  he  guessed  the  run  o' 
things,  jumps  into  his  ould  tweed  suit,  then 
dunders  into  the  kitchen  an'  catches  Debbie  by 
the  arm  as  she  comes  to  kiss  him. 


Her  Soger  Boy.  141 

" '  Here,'  says  he,  '  none  o'  your  foolery. 
Get  me  my  clothes.' 

" '  I  give  ye  my  word,  Tim  — '  Debbie  begins ; 
but  Tim  only  shakes  her.  '  Get  them  for  me,' 
says  he,  '  an'  quick,  or,  by  the  Lord !  I  '11 
make  ye.'  And  at  that  Debbie  goes  down  on 
her  knees  and  clasps  her  hands. 

" '  Ah,  son  Tim,'  says  she,  '  forgive  me  — 
forgive  me  —  but  I  can't  spare  ye  —  I  can't 
spare  ye.  I  nursed  ye,  Tim,  an'  reared  ye ; 
you  're  all  I  've  got  — ' 

"'Where's  my  uniform?'  shouts  he  wi'  an 
oath. 

"  '  I  —  I  burnt  it,'  says  Debbie ;  an'  at  the 
word  Tim  flung  her  from  him. 

"  '  Burnt  me  uniform  ! '  says  he.  '  Burnt  the 
Queen's  scarlet ! '  says  he,  and  grips  her  arm. 
Then,  a  thought  strikin'  him,  he  turns  to  the 
hearthstone  —  an'  there  was  the  ashes  raked 
over  the  coals  just  as  he  'd  seen  Debbie  leave 
it  the  night  before.  '  Ye  ould  liar  ye ! '  he 
shouts,  an'  grips  her  again.  '  It  's  disgrace 
me  you  'd  do  —  ha'  me  arrested  for  a  deserter 
—  ha'  me  walk  down  the  street  in  handcuffs  — 
where 's  me  uniform  ? '  he  roars,  an'  lifts  his 
arm. 


142  Her  Soger  Boy. 

" '  No  —  no,'  says  Debbie,  liftin'  her  hands. 
'  Aw,  I  can't  spare  ye,  Tim.  You  '11  be  shot 
—  you'll  be  shot.' 

"  Then  Tim  turns  an'  lifts  the  tongs  from  the 
hearth. 

" '  One  more  chance  I  '11  give  ye,'  he  said  ;  '  an' 
only  one.  Find  me  my  uniform  before  I  count 
twenty,  or  before  the  Lord  I  '11  brain  ye  ! ' 

"  Aw,  sirs,  to  think  o'  what  the  army  '11  do 
for  a  man !  To  think  Tim  Chance  could  be 
brought  to  speak  to  his  mother  like  that  —  his 
poor  simple  mother  that  would  ha'  given  her 
heart's  blood  for  him  !  Ah  !  sirs.' 

"  Debbie  cowers  back  ;  surely  —  surely  that 
wasn't  Tim? 

" ' .  .  .  Seven,  eight,  nine,  ten  .  .  .  .' 

" '  Ah,  Tim,  me  son  ;  Tim,  me  son  ! ' 

" ' .  .  .  Fourteen,  fifteen  .  .  .  .' 

"'.  .  .Your  poor  ould  mother !  .  .  .  .' 

"'.  .  .  Nineteen  .  .  .  .' 

"  The  tongs  were  up ;  black  murder  was  on 
Tim's  face;  not  from  fear  —  for  death  would 
ha'  come  welcome  to  her  just  then,  but  in  simple 
despair  Debbie  threw  up  her  hands. 

"  «  No  —  no,  Tim,'  cries  she ;  'no  —  no ;  I  '11 
tell  ye  ;  I  '11  tell  ye.' 


Her  Soger  Boy.  143 

"  So  Debbie  brings  in  the  uniform  from  where 
she  'd  hid  it  in  the  turf-stack  out  in  the  garden ; 
an'  Tim  washes  himself,  an'  buttons  it  on, 
an',  after  his  breakfast,  lights  his  pipe,  an' 
prepares  for  the  road.  In  the  divil's  own 
humour  he  was  still,  black  an'  angry ;  an'  he 
stalks  for  the  door  as  if  to  go  wi'out  a  word. 
But  Debbie,  all  tremblin'  an'  pale,  runs  after 
him  an'  takes  his  arm. 

" '  Tim,  Tim,'  she  says  '  is  it  go  ye  would 
wi'out  forgivin'  me,  or  sayin'  good-bye  ? '  He 
never  turned ;  but  Debbie  clung  hard  to  him. 

"  '  Tim,  Tim,'  she  calls ;  '  my  God  !  Tim,  ye 
may  never  see  me  again  ! ' 

" '  I  don't  care,'  says  he  through  his  teeth, '  ye 
tried  to  disgrace  me ; '  wi'  that  shakes  his  mother 
off  an'  swaggers  off  in  his  scarlet-red  down  the 
street." 

Solomon  rose,  pocketed  his  pipe,  and  spat  on 
his  hands. 

"Come,  Thomas,"  said  he,  "to  work,  me 
son,  or  they  '11  have  no  water  for  the  porridge 
come  the  mornin'.  Come  on,  I  can  see  the 
master  squintin'  yonder  in  the  porch." 

"Finish  your  story  first,"  said  Thomas; 
"don't  stop  at  the  glory  be." 


144  Her  Soger  Boy. 

"Ah,  yis,"  said  Solomon,  and  gripped  his 
handle;  "ah,  yis.  That's  easily  done.  Tim 
swaggers  off,  as  I  tell  ye  —  he  told  the  whole 
story  to  the  post-boy  before  he  was  half  way 
to  Clogheen ;  an'  down  Debbie  falls  wi'  her  arms 
out  an'  her  face  on  the  doorstep  ;  an'  when  we 
picked  her  up  she  was  limp  as  a  rag  an'  as 
senseless.  She  lay  ravin'  in  Clogheen  infirmary 
for  weeks  ('t  was  there  Tim  seen  her  before  he 
went  abroad,  repentin'  when  't  was  too  late) ; 
an'  when  her  brain  lost  the  fever,  she  was  as  ye 
can  see  her  now  above  in  the  ward  —  as  witless 
as  a  rabbit.  But  sometimes,  they  say,  at  sight 
o'  a  stranger  she  '11  go  like  that  (and  Solomon 
popped  his  tongue  and  shot  out  his  finger),  an' 
then  — well,  who  knows  ?  But  ye  '11  remember, 
sir,  that  just  before  she  was  struck  her  mind  was 
full  o'  dread  that  Tim  was  goin'  off  to  be  shot. 
Aw  yis  —  aw  yis  !  " 

I  put  my  shilling  into  Solmon's  palm  ;  thanked 
him  for  his  story,  and  hurried  off  to  find  the 
Doctor. 


Rogue  Hartley. 


Rogue  Hartley. 


IT  was  fair  day  in  Bonn,  and  the  five  o'clock 
train  out  was,  in  consequence,  packed  from 
buffer  to  buffer.  Hardly  could  one  breathe, 
even  by  the  open  window  of  our  long  third- 
class  compartment;  assuredly  could  not  one 
move  a  limb  for  the  crowd  and  crush — of 
foul-mouthed  jobbers  reeking  of  whisky  and 
tobacco;  of  noisy  fanners  reeking  of  horses 
and  cattle;  of  women  laden  with  baskets  of 
groceries,  and  bags  of  flour,  and  red  handker- 
chiefs of  sundries:  it  was  wonder  that  the 
crawling  train  did  not  creak  its  last  and  col- 
lapse on  the  line.  As  my  neighbour  (a  little 
black  man  dressed  decently  in  tweed,  with 
a  shrewd  face  and  the  mouth  of  an  orator) 
expressed  it :  "  Faith,  if  I  was  this  carriage 
I'd  burst  the  sides  in  me;  sure  it's  woful." 


148  Rogue   Bartley. 

For  all  that  we  reached  Ballyhob  Junction 
safely ;  and  there,  such  of  us  (not  many,  thank 
Heaven !)  as  were  bound  for  Clogheen  crossed 
the  bridge,  and  presently  took  our  seats  in  the 
up-train  from  Glann.  Again  I  had  a  corner- 
seat  ;  and  again  from  my  elbow  came  the  voice 
of  the  little  black  man. 

"  Bedad,"  said  he,  mopping  his  brow,  "  it 's 
heavenly  to  feel  again  that  one  has  legs  on  him. 
Whisht ! "  whispered  he,  and  leaning  forward 
over  my  knees,  pushed  his  head  through  the 
open  window.  "Who's  this?  Be  the  King! 
but  it 's  Herself.  Aw,  Sir,  is  n't  she  a  bouncer  ?  " 

As  well  as  I  could,  I  spied  over  the  little 
man's  hat,  and  saw  coming  down  the  bridge- 
stairs  the  lady  whom  my  friend  called  Herself. 
Tall  she  was  and  sedate,  well-dressed  and  hand- 
some, neither  in  appearance  nor  face  the  least 
Irish;  to  her  the  farmers  touched  their  hats, 
and  the  women  curtsied,  and  the  porter  hast- 
ened that  he  might  have  the  honour  of  turning 
the  handle  of  her  first-class  carriage  door. 
Who  was  she  ?  I  was  asking  myself  with  some 
curiosity,  when  the  little  man  pulled  his  head 
in,  laid  his  hand  on  my  knees  and  knowingly 
winked  at  me. 


Rogue  Bartley.  149 

"Eh,"  said  he,  "that's  the  sort;  that's  a 
pattern  of  a  female  for  ye.  Ye  wid  n't  know 
her,  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

I  answered,  "  No." 

"  Aw,  jist  so,"  said  he,  and  much  to  my  relief 
sat  back  on  his  seat;  "jist  so.  Ye '11  be  a 
stranger  here?" 

I  answered,  "  Yes." 

"Ay!"  said  he.  "Well,  that  bein'  so,  of 
course  ye  couldn't  be  acquaint  wi'  her.  But 
I  know  her,  right  well  I  know  her,  no  man 
better.  An'  more  than  that,  I  seen  her  once 
when  for  fifty  pounds  she  wouldn't  ha'  had 
me  see  her.  Yis,  I  did." 

"Oh,"  said  I.     "Indeed?" 

"  Aw,  it 's  truth.  Ye  're  a  stranger  here,  ye 
say?"  he  asked  again,  and  shifting  his  seat 
faced  me. 

"  I  Ve  said  so." 

"  Ay ! "  said  he ;  then,  as  the  manner  of 
rustics  is,  leant  forward  with  his  elbows  on 
his  knees,  and  his  face  as  close  as  was  pos- 
sible to  mine.  "  Ay !  An'  I  suppose,  now,  in 
your  travels  ye  never  heard  tell  o'  one  Rogue 
Bartley  ?  No !  Well,  well ;  such  is  life.  But, 
whisht  now,  an'  I  '11  tell  ye  about  Herself  an' 


150  Rogue  Bartley. 

Hartley ;  a  mighty  curious  story  it  is,  an'  it  '11 
divert  ye,  mebbe,  from  here  to  Clogheen, 
Off  we  go  !  "  said  he,  as  the  train  skirled ;  then 
knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  crossed  his 
arms  on  his  knees,  wet  his  lips,  and  began. 

"  Me  name  is  Thomas  Kurd,"  said  he,  in  his 
slow,  matter-of-fact  way.  "  Wee  Thomas  they 
call  me  for  a  nickname.  I  live  there  beyond, 
three  miles  this  side  o'  Clogheen,  on  a  farm  o' 
me  own  wi'  me  wife  and  six  childer.  Well,  one 
day,  I  was  standin'  outside  the  open  window  o' 
the  big  house  above  at  Kilpad,  waitin'.  .  .  . 
But  wait,  now ;  I  'm  beginnin'  me  house  at  the 
chimneys;  wait  till  I  tell  ye  about  Bartley. 

"  Him  that  I  call  Bartley  was  the  youngest 
son,  then,  o'  a  family  that  not  so  very  long 
ago  held  its  head  high  in  this  part  o'  the 
world.  French  was  their  name  —  the  Frenches 
o'  Mohill — an'  if,  as  I  hear  tell,  their  name- 
sakes across  the  water  are  pretty  high  in  the 
stomachs,  faith  these  same  were  French  by 
name  an'  French  by  nature.  When  I  knew 
them,  before  they  came  down  in  the  world, 
there  was  eight  o'  them:  the  father,  mother, 
and  four  sons  and  two  daughters;  an'  divil 
as  handsome  a  set  o'  men  an'  women  ye  'd 


Rogue  Bartley.  151 

see  again  if  ye  travelled  from  here  to  kingdom 
come.  Six  fut  ivery  man  o'  them  stood  in  his 
stockin's;  an'  the  women  folk  could  set  their 
chins  on  the  shoulder  o'  a  sixteen-hand  horse 
as  easy  as  they  could  lace  their  boots.  But, 
as  I  said,  they  were  proud  —  odious  proud ; 
not  passin'  ye  by,  mind  ye,  wi'  a  sniff  an'  a 
prance  like  a  circus  horse,  for  they  were  as 
free  wi'  Tommy  Hurd  as  they  were  wi'  my 
Lord,  but  just  carryin'  themselves  like  five- 
year  old  stallions,  as  much  as  to  say :  '  I  'm 
willin'  to  notice  ye,  but  dang  your  buttons ! 
keep  your  distance.'  An'  the  divil-me-care  set 
they  were ;  tearin'  here  an'  there  over  the  coun- 
try, niver  in  the  house,  fightin'  like  imps  among 
themselves  one  minute,  kissin'  one  another  the 
next,  shootin'  all  day,  fishin'  all  night,  hunting 
like  blazes  !  Aw,  't  was  wonderful ;  an'  surely 
a  wonderful  family  were  the  Frenches,  in  these 
parts  their  like  or  equal  no  man  could  find. 

"  Well,  they  say  pride  has  a  fall,  an',  faith, 
it 's  true  o'  the  Frenches  ;  for  after  a  while  times 
get  bad,  an'  land  goes  down,  an'  money  gets 
scarce,  an'  themselves,  wi'  their  fine  house  an' 
carriages  an'  lashin's  o'  the  best,  found  the  curb 
begin  to  bite  on  them.  Not  that  ye  'd  notice 


152  Rogue   Bartley. 

much  —  aw,  no  ;  that  was  n't  the  way  wi'  them 
—  but  bit  by  bit  things  got  bad  here,  an'  worse 
there,  till  afore  ye  knew  where  ye  were  the 
father  was  dead,  an'  the  mother  —  ah,  Lord ! 
the  fine  woman  she  was  —  was  dead,  an'  the 
girls  an'  the  brothers  were  scattered  over  the 
world,  an'  the  house  an'  land  were  up  for  sale 
by  the  creditors.  All  in  a  twinkle  ye  'd  think  it 
was  ;  and  it  was  good-bye  Frenches  ! 

"  But 't  was  about  young  Bartley  I  was  tellin' 
ye  —  ay,  Rogue  Bartley.  He  was  the  youngest, 
an'  the  biggest,  an'  the  quarest  o'  them  all. 
Ah,  a  fine,  handsome,  dashin',  hearty  man  was 
Bartley,  wi'  a  voice  in  him  like  the  organ  in  the 
church  there  beyond,  an'  a  laugh  like  the  roar  of 
a  bull,  an'  ivery  limb  on  him  as  big  an'  hard  as 
an  anvil.  Great  King  !  to  see  Bartley  on  a  horse, 
the  set  an'  size  o'  him ;  not  the  Duke  of  Well- 
in'ton  himself  could  have  filled  a  saddle  better 
or  boulder.  Ay,  Bartley  was  a  hero.  All  the 
women  in  the  country-side  'd  ha'  died  for  love  o' 
him  —  ay,  an'  some  o'  them  mebbe  did  worse ; 
an'  the  men  —  well,  troth,  the  men  looked  side- 
ways at  him.  Not  that  he  wasn't  free  an'  easy 
wi'  us  all,  ready  wi'  his  joke  an'  glass  like 
another,  an'  bubblin'  over  wi'  good  nature,  as 


Rogue  Hartley .  153 

ye  'd  think.  Ay  !  But  somehow  there  was  bad 
blood  in  him.  Ye  could  n't  trust  him.  He  'd 
laugh  at  your  face  an'  spit  at  your  back.  An' 
when  he  laughed,  somehow  it  was  n't  the  heart 
o'  him  that  laughed  —  naw !  't  was  the  proud, 
rotten  stomach  o'  him. 

"  Well,  well,  let  him  rest ;  he  niver  did  me 
harm,  an'  the  pride 's  out  o'  him  by  this.  Ay  ! 
But  I  'm  wanderin'." 

Thomas  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  brought  out  a 
bottle,  uncorked  it,  and  offered  it  to  me.  "  It  's 
good,"  said  he,  as  I  shook  my  head  ;  "  the  best 
in  the  world.  Well,  as  ye  like,"  said  he,  and 
put  the  neck  between  his  teeth ;  "  as  ye  like, 
but  it 's  easy  seein'  you  're  a  stranger  to  these 
parts. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  sayin',"  Thomas  went  on, 
presently,  "  the  Frenches  lost  all,  an'  got  scat- 
tered, an'  Bartley  wi'  them.  'T  was  to  the  States 
Bartley  went  wi'  another  o'  the  brothers:  an' 
after  that,  'cept  for  an  odd  word  of  a  story 
that  'd  go  flyin'  from  the  big  house  all  round  the 
country,  for  long  enough  sorrow  a  French  ye  'd 
think  had  ever  shot  an  Irish  snipe.  Good  as 
dead  they  all  were.  Ay,  ay ;  it 's  the  way  o'  the 
world. 


154  Rogue  Bartley. 

"  But  one  day,  two  years  ago  it  was  last  June, 
if  ye  please,  I  was  workin'  in  a  field  I  have 
convenient  to  the  Clogheen  road,  when,  liftin' 
up  me  eyes  at  sound  of  a  foot,  who  should  I 
see  but  Bartley.  Ay,  troth,  himself  sure 
enough;  but  changed  woful.  Quid  an'  hungry 
he  looked  ;  all  skin  an'  grief,  ye  might  say,  wi' 
the  clothes  hangin'  loose  on  him  like  the  duds 
on  a  scarecrow.  '  Ho,  ho,'  thinks  I  ;  '  ho,  ho, 
Bartley,  me  son,  what's  this?'  An'  wi'  that 
he  mounts  the  ditch  an'  calls  to  me  across  the 
hedge,  just  as  he  used  to  do  often  enough  in  the 
ould  times. 

"  '  Hello,  Thomas,'  calls  he,  free  an'  easy  like 
that,  Sir.  '  How  's  youself,  Thomas  ?  ' 

"  '  Well,"  says  I,  startin'  towards  him,  rubbin' 
the  clay  from  me  hand  on  me  britches,  '  I  'm 
middlin',  thank  ye,  Mr.  Bartley :  an'  how  are 
you,  Sir? ' 

"  '  Aw,  the  best,  Thomas,'  says  he,  shakin' 
hands  ;  '  the  best.  Ye  see,  I  'm  back  again  in 
the  ould  country.' 

"  Yis,'  says  I ;  '  an'  welcome  ye  are,  Mr. 
Bartley ;  but,  if  it 's  not  makin'  free,  I  can't  say 
that  the  trip  across  the  water  's  done  much  for 
your  health.' 


Rogue  Hartley.  155 

"  '  Oh  ! '  says  he  mighty  sharp.  '  How  's 
that?' 

" '  Well,'  I  says,  '  I  mind  the  day  you  'd  turn 
the  scale  at  sixteen  stone  ;  an'  now  —  ' 

"  '  Oh,'  says  he,  turnin'  his  head,  '  that 's 
nothin',  I  've  been  ill.  I  suppose,'  says  he, 
turnin'  the  subject  quick-like,  '  some  o'  the  ould 
friends  are  still  alive  —  Doctor  Sharp,  an'  Rec- 
tor Hill  ?  '  an'  mentions  one  an'  another  here  an' 
there  about  the  country. 

"  '  Aw,  'deed  they  are,'  I  answers ;  an'  goes 
on  to  tell  the  news :  who  was  dead,  an'  who 
married,  an'  all  the  rest.  An'  Bartley  listens 
mighty  attentive  till  I  'd  run  dry ;  then  steps 
down  off  the  ditch. 

" '  I  'm  obliged  to  ye,  Thomas,  for  all  your 
news,'  says  he.  '  Good-day  to  ye,  Thomas.' 

" '  Aw,  good  luck  to  you,  Sir,'  answers  I ;  an' 
off  me  hero  steps  down  the  road,  wi'  his  head 
back,  an'  his  arms  swingin',  just  the  same  as  if 
the  whole  country  belonged  to  him,  an'  there 
was  still  sixteen  stone  o'  good  Irish  flesh  inside 
the  shabby  coat  o'  him. 

"  Well,  I  seen  Bartley  again ;  aw,  troth,  I  did, 
an'  before  long  heard  enough  of  him.  Faith, 
afore  two  days  the  country  was  buzzin'  about 


156  Rogue  Bartley. 

him.  For  what  d'  ye  think  me  gentleman  does  ? 
Ye  would  n't  guess  in  a  month  o'  Sundays. 
First  of  all,  away  he  goes  to  Dr.  Sharp,  an' 
pitches  his  tale  about  losin'  his  clothes  in  a  ship- 
wreck, an'  bein'  robbed  in  London,  an'  all  the 
rest ;  stays  the  night  there,  an'  in  the  mornin' 
starts  off  to  Rector  Hill's,  carryin'  the  lend  o' 
some  o'  the  Doctor's  clothes  (the  Doctor  bein' 
a  big  lump  of  a  man  himself)  in  the  Doctor's 
portmanty ;  an'  at  the  Rector's  he  pitches  his 
tale  again,  borrows  five  pound  an'  his  umbrella 
from  his  Reverence,  an'  takes  himself,  by 
this  gettin'  fatter  an'  more  decent  lookin',  to 
Banker  Small's ;  an'  there  too,  faith,  makes 
himself  agreeable,  an'  laves  the  house  wi'  some 
o'  the  Banker's  shirts  an'  socks,  an'  all  that,  in 
the  Doctor's  portmanty.  So,  pickin'  up  a  trifle 
here  an'  a  trifle  there,  a  sovereign  from  this 
man  an'  five  shillin's  from  that  —  sure  it  was 
easy  to  do,  for  who  'd  have  the  heart  to  refuse 
an  ould  friend,  particularly  an  ould  friend  with 
a  way  wid  him  like  Bartley  French  ?  —  an' 
makin'  himself  at  home  everywhere ;  round  the 
country  Bartley  goes  (an'  ye  '11  observe,  Sir,  the 
foxy  way  that  he  pumped  me  about  all  his 
friends  that  were  alive),  an'  before  three  days 


Rogue  Bartley.  157 

was  snug  an'  comfortable,  portmanty  an'  all,  in 
the  big  house  over  at  Caroo  —  or,  if  ye  like  it 
better,  at  the  house  o'  Sir  George  Townley,  him, 
Sir,  that 's  landlord  o'  all  these  parts. 

"  An'  then  the  spree  begins.  Troth,  't  was  as 
good  as  a  play ;  though,  o'  course,  no  one  had 
anythin'  but  pity  at  the  time  for  the  poor  ship- 
wrecked crature ;  an'  glad  we  all  were  to  see  him 
in  clover  above  at  Sir  George's.  Aw,  yis,  we 
were  mighty  soft;  but  Bartley  knew  what  he 
was  about ;  he  knew  how  to  rattle  down  his  ace 
o'  trumps.  Sure  inside  a  week  he  was  kickin' 
the  roof  off  Caroo,  for  the  stone  walls  o'  it 
couldn't  stand  the  flings  o'  him.  Ye'd  think 
't  was  the  Lord  Lieutenant  himself,  all  the  airs 
he  had.  'T  was  orderin'  the  servants  here  ;  an' 
swearin'  at  the  grooms  there ;  an*  shootin'  all 
day  long ;  an'  ridin'  Sir  George's  horses  off 
their  legs ;  an'  kickin'  the  coat-tails  off  the 
butler ;  an'  bangin'  his  skull  against  the  roof 
till  no  one  knew  his  feet  from  his  head;  an' 
they  tell  me  that  not  a  female  in  the  house  but  'd 
ha'  given  her  immortal  soul  to  him. 

"  Anyway,  that  may  be  here  or  there ;  all  I 
can  swear  to  is,  that  the  first  Sunday  I  seen 
Bartley  steppin'  out  o'  Sir  George's  carriage  at 


158  Rogue   Bartley. 

the  church  door,  he  looked  as  swarthy  an'  fat 
as  a  grass  bull ;  an'  dang  me,  if  he  did  n't  show 
off  other  people's  clothes  better  than  they  iver 
did  themselves  !  An'  to  hear  the  sweet  voice  o' 
him  singin'  that  beautiful  behind  in  the  big 
family  pew,  an'  callin'  Amen  twice  as  loud  as 
Sir  George ;  an'  to  see  the  sleek,  pious  look  o' 
him ;  an'  to  see  all  the  women  squintin'  back  at 
him  —  Och,  och,  't  was  wonderful,  wonderful ! 
"  An'  then,  lo  an'  behold  ye !  the  next  thing 
we  hear  is  that  Bartley  is  keepin'  company  wi' 
Miss  Mary,  Sir  George's  maiden  sister,  her 
that  was  forty,  if  she  was  a  day,  an'  as  plain  as 
a  church  wall  —  mad  in  love  wi'  her,  the  sayin' 
was,  an'  makin'  as  fast  as  man  could  for  the 
ring  an'  weddin'  bells.  Day  in,  day  out,  there 
they  were,  walkin'  together  along  the  road,  sit- 
tin*  together  in  church,  sailin'  together  on  the 
lake,  an'  iver  an'  always  chatterin'  like  jackdaws, 
an'  laughin'  at  times  as  hearty  as  play-actors. 
An',  sorrow  take  me,  if  we  could  all  make  it 
out;  for  plain  it  was  to  be  seen  that  Bartley 
was  only  courtin'  Miss  Mary's  money,  an' 
had  n't  returned  the  coats,  an'  shirts,  an'  boots, 
an'  what  not  to  the  people  that  owned  them ; 
an'  that  he  had  n't  a  penny  piece  o'  his  own 


Rogue  Bartley.  159 

jinglin'  in  his  pocket.  Howsomever,  that  was 
Hartley's  affair ;  an'  if  he  was  clever  enough  to 
hoodwink  the  quality  —  an',  troth,  that  same 
is  n't  hard  to  do  —  what  were  we  to  do  but  keep 
our  tongues  in  our  cheeks  an'  laugh  to  our- 
selves ?  Anyway,  things  went  on  like  that  for 
about  two  months ;  an'  then,  just  as  we  all  were 
expectin'  a  bonfire  an'  a  big  dinner  in  honour  o' 
the  marriage,  the  thing  happened  that  I  Ve 
now  to  tell  ye  about.  " 

Thomas  lit  his  pipe,  whiffed  hard  for  a  while  : 
then  wiped  its  stem  on  his  sleeve  and  offered  it 
to  me.  I  thanked  him,  but  said  I  did  not 
smoke;  at  which  he  returned  the  pipe  to  his 
pocket,  crossed  his  legs,  and  went  on. 

"  I  had  occasion,  one  day  about  the  time  I  'm 
tellin'  ye  of,  to  go  on  a  matter  o'  business  to 
see  Sir  George ;  an',  as  the  custom  is,  had  taken 
up  me  stand  on  the  terrace  outside  the  open 
window  o'  Sir  George's  room.  The  window 
was  open  —  't  was  one  o'  these  foreign  affairs 
that  opens  like  a  door  —  an'  as  I  stood  wi'  me 
back  against  the  wall,  I  could  see  over  me 
shoulder  wi'  the  tail  o'  me  eye  into  the  room. 
A  fine  big  room  't  was,  full  o'  beautiful  pictures 
an'  things ;  an'  Himself  sat  over  in  the  corner 


160  Rogue   Bartley. 

by  the  fireplace-  That  mornin'  he  happened 
to  be  busy,  an'  I  waited  a  tidy  while  before  he 
called  to  me  to  state  me  business.  So  off  I 
takes  me  hat,  turns  round,  an'  bobbin'  me  head, 
as  the  way  is,  begins  to  say  me  say.  But  hardly 
had  I  cleared  me  throat,  when  the  door  o'  the 
room  opens,  an'  in  walks  one  o'  these  play-boys  in 
livery,  wi'  a  big  bright  tray,  an'  a  bit  of  a  card  on 
it,  that  he  presents,  as  if  't  was  a  thousand-pound 
note,  to  Sir  George.  Himself  takes  it  an'  looks 
at  it ;  an'  quick  his  eyes  opened  an'  his  mouth, 
and  says  he : 

" '  Who  brought  this  ?  '  says  he. 

" '  A  lady,  Sir  George,'  says  the  boy-o. 

" '  A  lady  ? '  answers  Himself.  '  An'  where 
is  she  ? ' 

" '  Waitin',  Sir  George,  in  the  hall  for  an 
answer,  Sir  George,'  says  the  lad. 

"Then  Himself  whacks  the  table;  an', 
'  Damme ! '  he  says  that  fierce ;  for  a  wrath- 
ful man  is  Sir  George,  an'  at  times  rough  in 
his  speech.  '  Damme ! '  says  he ;  then  tells 
the  play-boy  to  leave  the  room;  an'  meself, 
too,  seein'  I  wasn't  wanted  just  then,  steps 
aside,  an'  puts  me  back  against  the  wall  in 
the  ould  place. 


Rogue  Hartley.  161 

"Well,  soon  as  the  door  shut,  up  jumps 
Sir  George  from  his  chair  an'  begins  to 
march  about  the  room.  'What's  this?'  he 
says  to  himself,  an'  looks  at  the  bit  of  a  card. 
'Damme!  what's  this?' 

"  Like  that  he  kept  mutterin'  to  himself,  an' 
prancin'  up  an'  down  like  a  two-year-old  colt ; 
after  a  bit  goes  to  a  press,  takes  a  mouthful 
o'  spirits  from  a  bottle  (sure  it  made  me  laugh 
to  see  how  much  like  another  these  quality 
are  when  they're  by  themselves);  then  makes 
for  the  bell-rope  an'  pulls  it.  In  comes  me 
play-boy  again  sharp  and  quick.  'Show  the 
lady  up,'  says  Himself;  and  before  ye  could 
say  knife,  Sir  George  was  back  in  his  chair 
and  the  play-boy  in  livery  was  showin'  a  lady 
into  the  room. 

"'  Mrs.  Hartley  French]  says  he,  in  a  big 
voice ;  an',  faith,  sir,  at  the  word  I  could  hardly 
keep  from  whistlin'.  '  Ho,  ho  ! '  says  I  to  me- 
self;  'here's  sport;'  an'  wi'  that  stands  as 
close  to  the  wall  as  I  could,  just  keepin'  the 
tail  o'  me  eye  on  Sir  George's  end  o'  the 
room. 

"  Sir  George  rises  mighty  polite,  an'  bobs 
his  head,  an'  asks  the  lady  to  take  a  chair; 


1 62  Rogue  Bartley. 

an'  Herself,  in  her  cloak  an'  feathers,  thanks 
him  an'  sits  down  ;  then,  all  quiverin',  says  she : 

" '  Sir  George  Townley,'  says  she,  '  what 's 
the  meanin'  o'  all  this?  Haven't  ye  been  ex- 
pectin'  me  ?  '  says  she.  '  Why  did  n't  Bartley 
come  to  meet  me?  Where  is  Bartley?'  she 
says,  half  risin'  from  her  chair. 

"  But  Sir  George  sits  as  cool  as  ye  please,  an' 
looks  hard  at  her,  an'  says : 

" '  Excuse  me,  ma'am '  —  or  words  like  that — 
'  but  may  I  ax  who  ye  are  ? ' 

"  '  Who  I  am  ? '  says  Herself,  an'  stares  at 
him  like  a  bull  at  a  gate.  '  Who  I  am !  Ye 
don't  know  me  ? ' 

" '  No/  says  he,  that  cool ;  '  I  don't  know  ye, 
ma'am ;  nor  have  I  ever  heard  of  ye  before  this 
day.' 

"  Then  Herself  rises  an'  looks  at  Sir  George 
as  if  she  was  mad. 

"  '  Never  heard  o'  me ! '  says  she.  '  My  God  ! 
what  does  this  mean  ?  Tell  me,'  says  she ; 
'  is  n't  this  Caroo  House  ?  An'  are  n't  you 
Sir  George  Townley?' 

" '  Yes,'  says  he,  like  that. 

"'And  isn't  me  husband,  Bartley  French, 
stayin' here  as  your  guest?'  says  she. 


Rogue  Bartley.  163 

"  But  Sir  George  smiles  an'  waves  his  hand, 
an'  he  answers  polite : 

" '  Excuse  me,  ma'am '  —  or  words  like  that  — 
'  but  before  I  answer  —  ' 

"An'  at  that  Herself  breaks  out  again. 

"  '  Oh,  my  God ! '  she  says ;  '  what  is  all  this  ? 
What  is  this  that  has  happened  to  me  ?  ' 

"She  stood  like  one  bewildered  for  a  while, 
with  Sir  George  still  lookin'  hard  at  her ;  then 
all  at  once  she  turns  to  him  an'  says : 

" '  Sir  George  Townley,'  says  she,  '  I  can't 
tell  ye  whether  I  am  asleep,  or  awake,  or  mad. 
I  believe  I  'm  mad.  I  can't  understand  where 
I  am  or  what  has  happened  to  me.  I  have 
travelled  here  all  the  way  from  America,  ex- 
pectin'  to  find  me  husband  with  ye,  to  find 
him  waitin'  for  me  at  the  station,  to  be  wel- 
comed by  you,  an'  —  an'  —  Sir  George,  for 
God's  sake!  tell  me  if  Bartley  is  here  or  has 
been  here.  Is  he  here,  Sir  George?' 

"Then  Himself  rises,  and  lays  his  hand  on 
her  arm,  aud  asks  her  to  sit  down. 

"'Mrs.  French,'  says  he,  'before  I  tell  ye 
anythin'  about  your  husband,  I  must  ask  ye 
a  question  or  two.' 

"  An'  before  another  word  was  said  in  comes 


164  Rogue  Bartley. 

me  play-boy  in  livery  again,  an'  hands  Sir 
George  a  telegram. 

"  He  excuses  himself,  tears  it  open,  reads 
it,  an'  crumples  it  up  tight  in  his  fist.  '  The 
scoundrel ! '  he  shouts,  jumpin'  up  with  a  face 
like  a  thunderstorm.  '  The  scoundrel ! ' 

'"Is  it  from  Bartley?'  asks  Herself,  lookin'  up. 

"'Yes,'  says  Sir  George,  an'  looks  down 
at  her.  '  It  is  from  Bartley.  Ye  may  read, 
Mrs.  French ; '  an'  he  smooths  out  the  tele- 
gram an'  hands  it  to  her.  But  she  says,  No ; 
she  'd  rather  Sir  George  read  it ;  so  Himself 
spreads  his  legs  before  the  fireplace  an'  reads. 
Wi'  every  ear  I  had  I  listened : 

"  'LIVERPOOL,'  reads  Sir  George  (sure  I  mind  the 
words  like  me  prayers).  '  To  Sir  George  Townley, 
Caroo  House,  Ireland.  Arrived  here  safely  this 
mornin'.  Sail  this  evening  Thanks  for  your  loan 
an'  hospitality.  My  wife  will  probably  be  with  ye 
to-day.  Be  very  good  to  her.  Sorry  I  could  not  wait 
to  see  her.  My  love  to  her  an'  Polly.  Good-bye  for 
ever.  —  BARTLEY  FRENCH.' 

" '  Good-bye  for  ever,'  says  Sir  George  again. 
'  The  scoundrel ! '  says  he ;  an'  then  for  a 
while  ye  could  hear  a  pin  drop  in  the  room. 
Herself  s  face  was  turned  to  the  window,  an'  the 


Rogue  Bartley.  165 

look  that  was  on  it  was  just  the  same  as  I  seen 
once  on  a  man's  face  when  the  news  came  to 
him  that  his  bank  was  smashed  —  a  kind  o' 
dazed,  hopeless  look.  An'  Sir  George  stood 
lookin'  down  at  her  wi'out  openin'  his  lips. 
At  last  she  kind  o'  choked  an'  turns  her  head. 

"  '  When  did  he  go,  Sir  George  ?  '  says  she. 

"  '  Yesterday ;  by  the  mail  train,'  says  he. 

"  '  An'  —  an'  he  never  told  ye  —  anythin' 
about  me  ? '  says  she. 

"  '  Not  one  word,'  answered  Sir  George ;  '  not 
one  word.  He  borrowed  some  money  of  me ; 
promised  when  his  business  was  done  he'd 
come  back  to  mar  —  The  ruffian ! '  says  Sir 
George ;  then  pulls  himself  up.  '  That  was  all, 
Mrs.  French,'  says  he ;  '  that  was  all.' 

" '  Did  he  say  where  —  where  he  was  go- 
ing ? '  says  Herself,  in  a  broken  kind  o'  way. 

" '  To  America,'  answers  he.  An'  at  the 
word  I  hears  a  sob,  an'  then  another,  an' 
then  a  burst  o'  bitter  cryin'. 

"  Lord,  Sir,  it  was  ojus:  the  sweat  broke  out 
over  me  at  the  sound  o'  it.  But  Sir  George  sits 
down,  puts  his  hands  together,  an'  looks  at  his 
boots;  nor  sorrow  a  word  crossed  his  lips  till 
Herself  wiped  her  eyes  an'  looked  at  him. 


1 66  Rogue  Bartley. 

" '  Oh,  Sir  George,'  says  she,  '  Sir  George, 
I  —  I  could  n't  help  it !  '  An'  Himself  leans 
over,  like  he  was  her  father,  an'  puts  his  hand 
on  her  arm,  an'  tells  her  that  he  pities  her  from 
his  heart,  an'  that  he  '11  help  her  all  he  can,  an' 
that  meantime  the  best  thing  she  can  do  is  tell 
him  all  she  knows. 

"  Well,  sir,  she  was  loth  to  tell  him  much  at 
first  (sure  I  respected  her  all  the  more  for  it), 
an',  I  suspect,  she  had  little  heart  to  do  it; 
but,  after  a  while,  what  with  Sir  George's  soft 
manner  an'  his  coaxin'  questions,  bit  by  bit 
she  let  the  whole  story  out  —  a  powerful  long 
rigmarole  that  I  disremember,  an'  wouldn't 
have  time  to  tell  ye  anyhow.  But  the  long 
an'  the  short  of  it  was  this: 

"  She  was  a  Yankee,  a  play-actress  it  seems  ; 
an'  she  married  Bartley  because,  as  she  said, 
he  kind  o'  made  her;  an'  because,  as  one 
could  see,  she  was  powerful  in  love  wi'  him. 
Ay,  Bartley  had  that  sootherin'  way  wi'  the 
women  always  an'  ever;  an',  faith,  with  Her- 
self, it  seems,  he  had  more  ways  than  one; 
for,  what  d  'ye  think  ?  but  he  gives  out  to  her 
that  he  was  the  son  o'  an  Irish  duke  or  some- 
body, an'  had  a  power  o'  money,  an'  a  whole 


Rogue  Bartley.  167 

county  o'  land  over  here,  an'  was  only  in 
America  for  a  holiday !  Did  ever  ye  hear 
the  like,  Sir,  in  all  your  born  days?  And 
Herself,  the  crature,  as  women  will,  believed 
him,  an'  thought  she  had  married  the  best 
o'  men  an'  the  richest.  But,  after  a  while, 
she  found  out  that,  duke's  son  or  not,  Mister 
Bartley  was  little  better  himself  than  another. 
Ay,  she  did  so.  He  took  to  drinkin',  an'  gamb- 
lin',  an'  the  sorrows  own  diversion;  an'  from 
that,  it  was  easy  to  see,  though  she  did  n't 
say  it,  that  he  took  to  worse;  for  the  end  o' 
it  was  that  one  day  Herself  packs  up  her  traps 
an'  leaves  him  to  his  devices.  An'  right  too, 
say  I.  But  och,  och,  the  foolishness  o'  women 
—  the  foolishness  o'  them !  For,  after  a  while, 
back  comes  Bartley  in  his  rags  an'  tatters,  an'  on 
his  knees  begs  her  to  forgive  him ;  sure  it  was 
her  money  he  wanted;  but  no  matter,  women 
are  fools,  an'  so  Bartley  gets  her  pardon. 

"Well,  after  that  things  went  pretty  smooth, 
I  suppose ;  till  one  day  Bartley  gives  out  that 
he  's  comin'  back  to  Ireland  to  collect  his  rents, 
and  see  about  the  property.  Great  King ! 
Bartley's  rent  an'  property !  Sure  it 's  no 
wonder,  Sir,  that  Sir  George  grinned  at  the 


1 68  Rogue  Hartley. 

news.  Anyway,  off  me  gentleman  sails  in  his 
big  ship,  but  not  to  collect  his  rents.  Aw,  no ! 
First  thing,  Herself  has  a  letter  from  Paris, 
makin'  his  excuses  an'  askin'  for  money.  Aw, 
yis ;  I  've  heard  o'  Paris !  Then,  she  has  a  letter 
from  London,  makin'  more  excuses  an'  askin' 
for  more  money.  Aw,  yis ;  I  've  heard  o'  Lon- 
don !  Then,  he  comes  to  Ireland  (I  've  told  ye, 
Sir,  the  way  he  came  to  us  after  his  divilments 
in  Paris  an'  London),  an'  writes  again  to  her, 
sayin'  that  he  found  his  estates  in  good  order, 
but  the  tenants  would  n't  pay  the  rent,  an'  asks 
for  a  trifle  more  to  take  him  on. 

" '  Did  ye  answer  that  letter,  Mrs.  French  ? ' 
asks  Sir  George. 

"'Yes,  Sir  George,'  says  she  ;  '  but  I  sent  no 
money ;  I  could  n't.  Indeed  I  sent  very  little 
at  any  time.' 

"'H'm!'  says  Sir  George,  with  a  kind  o' 
smile  on  him,  as  much  as  to  say :  '  Aw,  just  so, 
Mrs.  French ;  an'  now  Hartley  is  payin*  ye  back 
for  that  an'  for  all  the  rest.'  I  could  see  the 
words  on  his  face.  Ay  ! 

"  Well,  after  that  the  wife  gets  another  letter 
from  Mister  Bartley,  tellin'  her  that  the  family 
mansion  was  out  o'  repair,  an'  that  for  the  present 


Rogue  Bartley.  169 

he  was  enjoyin'  the  hospitality  of  his  old  friend, 
Sir  GeorgeTownley,  at  Caroo  House;  an'  on 
the  tail  o'  that,  comes  another  letter,  sayin'  that 
he  had  decided  to  settle  down  on  his  estates, 
that  Herself  was  to  come  over  at  once,  an'  that, 
till  the  family  mansion  was  ready,  she  was  to 
stay,  at  Sir  George's  invitation,  at  the  big  house 
at  Caroo. 

" '  The  scoundrel ! '  says  Sir  George  at  this ; 
'  the  scoundrel !  An',  I  suppose,'  says  he, 
thinkin',  no  doubt,  o'  Mary  the  sister,  « he 
never  mentioned  particular  any  members  o'  my 
family?' 

"'No,  Sir  George,'  answers  Herself;  'no, 
except  that  ye  were  all  very  good,  an'  kind,  an' 
would  be  delighted  to  see  me.  An'  so,  Sir 
George,'  she  says,  '  of  course  I  sold  up  the  little 
home  an'  came.' 

"  '  H'm  ! '  says  Sir  George  again  ;  then  rises 
to  his  feet.  '  Well,  Mrs.  French,'  says  he,  '  this 
Bartley  French  is  the  son  of  an  old  friend  o' 
mine,  an'  you  are  his  wife,  so  I  won't  say  what 
I  think  of  him ;  but  this  I  will  say,  that  a  more 
heartless,  blackguardly  trick  than  this  which  he 
has  just  played  on  you  I  never  before  heard  of. 
He  came  here  —  but  no  matter  what  he  did  here,' 


i  jo  Rogue   Bartley. 

says  Sir  George,  pullin'  himself  up ;  'no  matter 
about  that.  It  's  you,  Mrs.  French,  you 
brought  all  this  way  from  America,  only  to 
find  yourself  the  victim  o'  this,  this  —  Yes, 
damme  !  I  will  say  it  —  this  infernal,  ruffianly 
scoundrel !  I  1m  a  magistrate  o'  this  county, 
an'  —  ' 

"Well,  Sir,  at  that  Sir  George  begins  his 
prancin'  about  the  room  again,  an'  his  snortin'  an' 
spoutin' ;  so,  dreadin'  that  in  one  o'  his  caval- 
cades past  the  window  he  might  catch  sight  o' 
me,  I  just  slipped  away  along  the  wall,  an'  I  heard 
no  more. 

"  No.  But  had  n't  I  heard  enough  ?  Yes.  An' 
the  next  day  I  heard  more ;  for,  would  ye 
believe  me,  Sir  ? "  said  Thomas,  leaning  for- 
ward and  tapping  my  knee  with  his  hand, 
"  Bartley  went  off  the  very  day  that  Miss  Mary 
promised  to  be  his  wife ;  an'  more  than  that,  went 
off  with  the  Doctor's  portmanty,  an'  inside  it,  a 
hundred  pounds  he  'd  borrowed  from  Sir  George 
an'  every  stitch  an'  penny  he  'd  cajoled  from  his 
friends  !  Now,  what  d'  ye  think  o'  that  ? "  said 
Thomas,  sitting  up  and  looking  hard  at  me- 
"  Is  it  any  wonder  we  gave  him  the  name  o' 
'Rogue  Bartley'?" 


Rogue  Bartley.  171 

"  No,*'  said  I ;  "it  is  no  wonder.  And  I 
suppose  he  treated  his  wife  in  that  heartless 
fashion  bacause  of  —  ?  " 

"  Because  o*  her  leavin'  him,"  said  Thomas ; 
"  of  course ;  an'  refusin'  him  money  —  to  be 
sure;  an'  because  of  a  thousand  things  that 
were  deep  in  the  black  heart  o'  him.  Ay,  yes, 
that  was  the  great  reason  —  the  black  blood 
in  the  black  heart  o'  him.  Whisht !  she 's 
slowin',"  said  Thomas  as  the  train  slackened 
speed  near  Clogheen  Junction.  "  An'  now  keep 
a  sharp  look-out  for  Herself  on  the  platform, 
for  she 's  a  bouncer  •,  an'  if  you  're  wide  awake 
you  '11  see  Sir  George  waitin'  for  her  in  the 
carriage  outside  the  station  door." 

"Herself?"  said  I. 

"  Aw,  ay,"  said  Thomas  as  he  let  down  the 
window.  "  Aw,  ay,  it 's  Herself  sure  enough  ; 
for  Bartley  got  drunk  in  Liverpool  an'  was 
drowned  in  the  say:  an'  now,  faith,  Herself  is 
Mrs.  Sir  George." 


The  Splendid  Shilling. 


The   Splendid   Shilling. 


i. 

"  PLEASE,  Mr.  John,"  said  Mary  the  servant, 
"  Master's  sent  me  for  ye.  He  's  above  in  the 
front  parlour." 

"What  does  he  want?"  asked  Mr.  John,  and 
raised  his  eyes.  "  Tell  him  I  'm  busy." 

"  I  did,  Sir.  I  said  the  mower  was  bruk  an' 
ye  wur  fixin'  it ;  but  he  only  roared  at  me.  I  'd 
go,  Mr.  John;  'deed  I  wid." 

"  What  the  sorrow  now  ?  "  said  John,  and 
put  down  his  wrench  on  the  stones  of  the  yard. 
"  Roared,  ye  say,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Ay !  Och,  Sir,  spake  him  fair ;  don't  anger 
him  worse.  I  know  what  ails  him.  Her  mother 
was  here  a  while  ago  —  it 's  that,  Mr.  John." 

"  Ay,"  said  John,  and  his  face  darkened. 
"  Ay  !  An'  what  the  devil  brought  her  here  ?  " 


176  The   Splendid   Shilling. 

He  rose  from  his  knees,  turned  down  his  shirt- 
sleeves over  his  brown  arms,  then  took  his 
sleeved  waistcoat  from  the  pole  of  the  mowing 
machine  and  buttoned  it  on.  "Did  she  stay 
long,  Mary  ?  "  asked  he. 

"No,  Sir;  only  a  wee  while  —  but  I  heerd 
words." 

"Ay,"  said  John,  and  turned  towards  the 
kitchen  door  of  the  farmhouse.  "  Oh,  just 
so!" 

"  Ye  '11  spake  him  fair,  Mr.  John  ?  "  said  Mary 
the  servant,  and  ventured  to  lay  her  hand  on 
his  arm.  "  Och.  ye  will,  Sir !  Ye  know,  I  'd 
—  we'd  be  sorry  to  lose  ye,  Sir." 

John  hung  on  his  heel  for  a  step,  and  looked 
down  at  his  little  well-wisher  standing  bare- 
headed and  bare-footed  in  her  rags  and  tatters. 

"Oh,  ay,"  he  said,  and  laughed.  "Oh,  ay! 
Never  fear,  Mary;  I  '11  speak  him  fair,  true  an' 
fair  as  a  die.  An'  I  'm  thankful  to  you,  my 
girl,  for  the  hint  ye  gave  me ;  it 's  as  well  to 
know." 

Then  his  face  fell  solemn  again ;  and,  with  his 
hands  clasped  across  his  back,  he  went  in 
through  the  kitchen  and  along  the  red-flagged 
hall  into  the  front  parlour. 


The  Splendid   Shilling.  177 

James  Hewitt  was  sitting  in  an  old  leather 
arm-chair  reading  from  a  newspaper.  A  man 
of  about  sixty-five  years  he  was,  grey-headed, 
swarthy,  large-limbed,  strong  of  face,  a  fine  type 
of  your  Ulster  Protestant  farmer,  and  the  living 
image  of  what  you  would  expect  his  son  John 
to  be  when  Time  had  added  another  forty  or  so 
to  the  sum  of  his  years. 

"  Ye  wanted  me  ?  "  asked  John,  from  his  place 
by  the  door,  where  he  stood  fumbling  with  his 
cap. 

His  father  lowered  his  newspaper  and  looked 
at  him  over  the  rims  of  his  spectacles ;  then 
raised  the  sheet  again  as  if  to  read. 

"  Yes,"  answered  he,  "  I  did.  You  'd  better 
sit  down." 

"  I  'd  rather  stand.  I  'm  waitin'." 
Both  the  words  and  the  manner  in  which  they 
were  spoken  were  disrespectful ;  very  seldom  had 
child  of  his  dared  venture  so  to  speak  in  the 
presence  of  James  Hewitt.  For  once,  however, 
the  words  passed  unrebuked. 

"  Have  ye    mended  that    machine  ? "   came 
from  behind  the  newspaper. 
"  No ;  nor  won't.     Is  that  all  ?  " 
Clearly  John  foresaw  a  storm,  and  was  for 


178  The  Splendid  Shilling. 

brewing  it  at  once.  His  father  threw  down  his 
paper  and  sat  forward  in  his  chair. 

"  Won't ;  won't ! "  cried  he,  wrathfully.  "  What 
do  ye  mean,  Sir  ?  Have  ye  come  here  to 
defy  me  ?  " 

"  That 's  as  maybe.  I  meant  I  could  n't 
mend  it." 

"  Then  why  did  n't  ye  say  so  ?  " 

"  It 's  no  odds.  I  'm  waitin',  I  say.  I  know 
what  I  'm  here  for,  so  ye  may  as  well  say  your 
say  at  once." 

The  two  men  eyed  each  other  for  a  moment, 
straight  and  steadily :  along  the  deep  lines  of 
the  father's  face  anger  was  swiftly  flushing ;  in 
John's  eyes  obstinacy  was  fast  seated. 

"  Oh,  ye  know,  do  ye  ?  "  the  father  began ; 
then  all  suddenly  broke  out :  "How  dare  ye 
disobey  me,  Sir  ?  Did  n't  I  tell  ye,  last  time  I 
spoke  to  ye  about  this,  that  ye  were  to  give  up 
your  —  your  foolishness  wi'  —  wi'  that  hussy 
over  there  ?  Did  n't  I,  Sir  ?  " 

"Ye  did." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  choose  to  obey  ye.  Why 
should  I  ?  A  man  can  do  as  he  likes,  I 
suppose  ?  "  Suddenly  John  made  a  step  from 


The  Splendid  Shilling.  179 

the  door.  "  Look  here,  father,"  said  he, 
and  his  voice  came  low  and  solemn ;  "  let 's 
be  plain  an'  have  done,  for  God's  sake !  It 
goes  against  me  to  be  doin'  what  ye  don't  like, 
but  that  can't  be  helped.  Ye  asked  me  to 
give  up  Rachel  Hoey,  an'  to  have  no  more 
to  say  to  her.  Well,  I  have  n't  given  her  up, 
because  I  couldn't;  an'  I  won't  give  her  up, 
because  I  can't;  so  help  me  God!  Ye  may 
say  your  worst  an'  do  it ;  but  there 's  my 
say  as  plain  as  I  can  put  it." 

The  young  man  put  his  back  against  the 
door,  folded  his  arms,  and  so  standing,  with 
his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  wall  before  him, 
waited  for  the  words  of  his  fate.  Very  soon 
they  came,  swiftly,  wrathfully,  gathering  force 
at  every  sentence.  James  Hewitt  was  obliged 
to  his  son  for  his  plain  speaking,  and  dutiful 
conduct,  and  grateful  reward  for  all  that  had 
been  done  for  him.  It  was  always  pleasant 
for  a  father  to  find  his  children  thwarting  and 
defying  him,  and  insulting  his  grey  hairs. 

"  I  don't  want  to  defy  ye,  Sir,"  said  John, 
and  spoke  more  dutifully  than  he  had  yet 
done ;  "  an'  I  don't  think  I  've  insulted  ye." 

"  But  ye  have,  Sir,"  his  father  went  on ;  "  ye 


180  The  Splendid  Shilling. 

have  insulted  me,  spoke  to  me  like  a  plough- 
boy.  By  God,  Sir,  for  two  pins  I  'd  flog 
ye!" 

John  smiled. 

"  It 's  too  late  for  that  now,"  said  he  ;  "  those 
days  are  past." 

"  Ay  !  They  're  past,  ye  think,"  cried  the  old 
man;  "they're  past,  an'  so  ye  defy  me.  But 
they  're  not  past,  I  tell  ye ;  I  'm  master  in  my 
own  house  yet,  thank  God !  an'  if  I  can't  strap 
ye  I  can  sack  ye.  Ye  hear  that?  I  told  ye 
before  what  I  'd  do.  I  said  if  ye  had  any  more 
doin's  wi'  them  Hoeys,  if  ye  did  n't  keep  from 
their  house,  if  ye  did  n't  renounce  the  arts  o' 
that  little  jade,  I  'd  —  " 

"  She  's  no  jade,  father,"  said  John,  quietly. 
"  Even  from  you  I  '11  not  hear  that." 

"  But  ye  will  hear  it,  Sir.  Ye  knew,  I  told 
ye  myself,  that  no  Hoey  'd  ever  call  himself  my 
friend,  that  between  them  an'  me  there  was 
never,  an'  never  could  be,  anything  but  hatred. 
They  're  a  pack  o'  rogues  an'  liars,  one  an'  all ; 
there  never  was  one  o'  them  yet  fit  to  carry 
rags  to  a  beggarman.  An'  yet  —  yet  ye  tell 
me  ye  '11  marry  that  jade  ?  Yes,  jade  !  An'  ye 
send  her  mother  to  me  here  to  speak  for  ye  —  " 


The  Splendid  Shilling.  181 

"  I  did  n't  send  her,"  said  John ;  "  I  knew 
nothing  of  it." 

"  She  came  ;  that 's  enough.  I  want  to  hear 
no  more.  An'  now  you  come,  an'  forgetful  o' 
all  I  Ve  done  for  ye,  ye  ungrateful  scoundrel ! 
ye  say  ye '11  defy  me  an'  keep  on  wi'  your 
devices  ;  that  ye  will  do  what  ye  like ;  that  ye 
will  marry  this  girl ;  that  ye  don't  care  for  what 
I  say.  Don't  ye  ?  Look  ye  here,  John,  here 's 
a  plain  word  for  ye.  Are  ye  or  are  ye  not 
goin'  to  do  my  biddin'?" 

"  Ye  mean  give  Rachel  up  ? " 

"  I  do." 

«  No." 

"  Then  out  ye  go.  I  disown  ye.  From  this 
day  you're  no  son  o'  mine.  Ye  hear?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  1 11  curse  the  day  ye  were  born.  I  '11  cut  ye 
off  wi' a  shillin'.  Wait!" 

The  old  man  rose  from  his  chair,  crossed  the 
room,  and  opening  a  safe  which  stood  in  the 
corner,  took  therefrom  a  folded  paper. 

"  Ye  see  that  ?  "  he  cried,  and  faced  his  son 
once  more.  "  Ye  see  that  ?  It 's  my  will,  an'  in 
it  I  Ve  left  ye  all  I  possess.  Well,"  and  he 
took  the  paper  between  both  hands,  "  here  's 


1 82           The  Splendid  Shilling. 

your  chance.  Take  back  your  word  an'  it 
stands ;  say  the  word  an'  I  flitter  it.  Come  !  " 

"  Flitter,"  said  John  ;  and  the  will  went  flut- 
tering over  the  floor. 

"  It 's  the  last  o'  ye,"  shouted  James.  "  Take 
yourself  off !  I  disown  ye.  Out  o'  my  sight, 
an'  this  house  !  " 

But  John  stood  firm,  with  his  back  against 
the  door,  and  his  arms  still  folded. 

"  Very  well,"  said  he,  and  the  words  came 
slowly  as  from  a  tongue  striving  for  calmness. 
"  Very  well,  I  '11  go.  An'  may  neither  o'  us  rue 
this  day.  But  I  '11  say  this  —  " 

"  Ye  '11  say  nothin'.  My  solemn  curse  on  ye. 
Out  ye  go!" 

John  stepped  forward. 

"But  I  will  speak,  father,"  said  he;  "for 
you  're  unjust.  What  have  I  done  ?  Fell  in 
love  wi'  a  girl.  What  do  I  want  ?  Only  to 
marry  her.  It 's  true  ye  dislike  her  an'  hers. 
Well,  can  I  help  that?  I  wanted  nothin'  o'  ye, 
only  to  be  left  alone.  An'  now  ye  curse  me, 
disown  me  !  Ye  might  ha'  kept  your  breath  to 
cool  your  porridge.  I  '11  leave  your  house  in 
welcome ;  an'  may  your  curses  come  back 
to  —  "  John  stopped  suddenly.  "  No,"  he 


The  Splendid  Shilling.  183 

went  on ;  "I  '11  not  say  it ;  for  cursin'  is  the 
work  o'  the  devil.  But  as  the  word  comes  so 
I  take  it."  He  held  out  his  hand.  "Good- 
bye." 

His  father  turned  away. 

"  Ye  won't  shake  hands  ?  Come,  father ;  an' 
may  God  forgive  us." 

But  the  old  man  said  not  a  word ;  and  the 
next  moment  John  had  turned  his  back  on 
father  and  home. 


II 

John  took  his  coat  from  a  peg  in  the  hall ; 
and  without  more  ado  (without  a  glance,  even, 
through  the  passage  door  into  the  kitchen, 
where  all  tearful  stood  a  little  bare-footed 
figure)  went  out  through  the  front  door.  He 
was  homeless  now  and  penniless ;  the  wide 
world  was  before  him.  Where  should  he  go  ? 
He  looked  away  across  the  hills,  towards  the 
place  where  dwelt  the  maid  of  his  heart,  the 
maid  for  whom  he  had  just  forgone  so  much. 
Ah,  over  there  was  a  friend  awaiting  him,  a 
friend  true  as  steel,  whose  own  true  self  was 
worth  all  else  in  the  world.  All  else  ?  All  else  ? 


184  The   Splendid  Shilling. 

His  eyes  fell  on  the  broad  acres  lying  before 
him,  rich  in  crop,  fat  in  pasture,  dotted  with 
horses  and  cattle ;  over  there  was  the  orchard, 
with  the  sunlight  shimmering  through  the  bend- 
ing branches ;  close  by,  just  beyond  that  hedge, 
was  the  garden  all  trim  and  gay  and  bountiful ; 
behind,  was  the  old  homestead,  long,  white, 
comfortably  old-fashioned.  All  that  was  his 
inheritance.  In  sight  of  it  all  he  had  been 
born  and  reared ;  it  was  his  every  acre,  every 
stone  of  it  — •  only  for  Rachel. 

"  Is  she  worth  it  all?  Is  she  worth  it  all  ?  " 
he  asked  himself,  as,  turning,  he  made  straight 
down  the  lawn,  and  coming  presently  to  a  newly 
mown  meadow,  there  flung  himself  on  the  fresh, 
cool  grass.  "  Is  she  worth  it  all  ?  "  he  repeated 
over  and  over.  Yes,  yes,  his  heart  answered, 
she  is  worth  it  all,  worth  the  whole  world  to 
you,  John  Hewitt.  .  .  .  Was  he  doing  wisely  ? 
Would  it  not  have  been  better  to  have  taken 
Mary  the  servant's  advice,  to  have  spoken  his 
father  fairly,  to  have  thrown  himself  on  his  for- 
bearance and  forgiveness;  at  least  not  so  en- 
tirely to  have  ruined  his  chances?  He  had 
acted  impulsively,  obstinately.  Yes,  yes;  but 
what  other  way  was  there  ?  Wild  horses  would 


The  Splendid  Shilling.  185 

not  move  his  father ;  he  hated  the  Hoeys  like 
poison;  you  might  as  well  ask  tears  from  a 
tombstone  as  forgiveness  from  James  Hewitt. 
No,  no ;  there  was  no  other  way ;  his  bed  was 
made  and  he  must  lie  on  it;  for  weal  or  woe 
the  world  was  before  him  empty  of  all  but  his 
own  self  and  that  little  girl  over  there  beyond 
the  hilltops.  Ah,  but  she  was  everything, 
everything;  a  bonnie  lass,  the  pride  of  his 
heart.  She  was  everything;  let  him  go  seek 
comfort  and  consolation  at  her  hands. 

With  this  great  yearning  for  sympathy  close 
at  his  heart,  John,  about  nightfall,  set  out  across 
the  Gorteen  country,  and,  in  a  while,  came  to  a 
thatched  farmhouse  set  low  in  the  hollow  of 
the  hills.  A  garden,  enclosed  by  a  painted 
fence  and  full  (just  then  in  the  peaceful  gloam- 
ing) of  the  heavy  odours  of  old-fashioned  cottage 
flowers,  lay  in  front;  and  at  the  gate,  soberly 
clad  in  a  fresh  print  gown,  stood  Rachel.  Her 
face  lit  up  at  sound  of  his  step  and  at  sight 
of  his  wished-for  face;  surely  a  bonnie  lass 
was  she,  bright-eyed,  rosy-cheeked,  —  a  bright 
vision,  you  would  have  said,  for  any  disconso- 
late lover  cast  out  into  the  hollow  of  an  empty 
world 


1 86  The  Splendid   Shilling. 

John  quickened  his  stride  along  the  grass 
path  by  the  orchard  hedge ;  and  with  his  hands 
out  came  soon  to  the  little  gate,  and  his  sweet- 
heart standing  there  waiting  for  his  greeting. 
Ah,  how  glad  he  was  to  see  her,  to  hear  her 
voice;  never  before  had  her  face  shone  out 
more  winsome,  or  her  hand  clasped  his  with 
a  warmer  pressure  of  welcome  !  His  heart  was 
full  of  a  great  thankfulness  for  the  gift  of  her 
dear  presence  and  love.  Ah,  it  was  great,  great; 
worth  all  the  world,  that  moment  there  with 
Rachel  in  his  arms ! 

Presently  he  took  her  hand,  led  her  into  the 
orchard,  and  there,  under  the  spreading  branches 
of  an  old  apple-tree,  sat  down  beside  her. 

"Well,  Rachy,"  said  he,  all  suddenly,  "it's 
come  at  last." 

"What,  John?" 

"The  word  to  go.  Father  an'  myself  had 
a  talk  this  mornin'.  We  —  we —  'T  was  an 
angry  scene." 

"  Oh,  John  !  " 

"  Ay,  Rachy,  my  girl,  the  world  's  before  us. 
I  've  nothin'  now  in  the  world  but  you,  acusbla; 
only  you,  my  girl.  But  it's  enough,  isn't  it, 
Rachy?  Eh?  Is  n't  it?" 


The  Splendid  Shilling.  187 

Rachel  dropped  her  eyes  and  began  twisting 
her  ring  round  her  finger. 

"  Yes,  John,"  answered  she,  "  I  suppose  so. 
But  you'll  tell  me  about  this  affair  wi'  your 
father  ?  Who  —  how  did  it  begin  ?  " 

Then  John,  without  referring,  just  then,  to  the 
unfortunate  visit  Mrs.  Hoey  had  paid  to  his 
father  that  day  (a  visit  which,  as  he  well  knew, 
Rachel  had  neither  prompted  nor  encouraged, 
but  which  was  simply  the  well-meant  manreuvre 
of  an  anxious  mother),  and  without  much  exag- 
geration, for  John  was  a  modest  man,  and  no 
artist  in  the  science  of  words,  told  his  sweet- 
heart the  story  of  his  interview  with  his  father, 
its  beginning,  progress,  disastrous  close.  "  It 
was  to  be,"  said  John ;  "  it  was  to  be.  I  knew 
surely  when  Mary  —  when  I  set  foot  inside  the 
parlour  and  saw  his  face  that  it  was  all  over  wi' 
me.  It's  been  comin'  for  months  ;  did  n't  I  tell 
him,  months  back,  Rachel,  that  I  would  n't  give 
ye  up,  an'  did  n't  he  know  the  kind  o'  me  ?  He 
was  only  waitin'  to  see  what  I  'd  do.  What 
kind  is  he  at  all?" 

"  Oh,  it 's  all  a  mistake,"  cried  Rachel ;  and 
John,  not  heeding,  went  on  — 

"  What  kind  is  he  ?  "  asked  he,  and  spread 


1 88  The  Splendid  Shilling. 

his  hands.  "  How  could  he  do  such  a  thing  ? 
His  own  flesh  an'  blood  ?  Turn  me  out,  disown 
his  own  son  !  For  what  ?  Because  I  chose  my 
own  wife  for  myself ;  because  I,  a  grown  man, 
refused  to  do  his  biddin' ;  because  you  an'  yours 
weren't  to  his  likin'.  An'  to  curse  me  —  curse 
me,  his  own  flesh  an'  blood !  Ah,  may  God 
repay  .  .  . ! " 

Rachel  caught  his  arm  with  both  hands. 

"  No,  no,  John,"  cried  she.  "  No,  no !  I  'm 
not  worth  that." 

"  But  ye  are,"  answered  John,  his  wrath  sud- 
denly falling,  "ye  are,  acusbla;  worth  all  in  the 
world.  Never  heed,  my  lass,  never  heed;  let 
the  curses  go  an'  all  else  wi'  them.  I  Ve  got 
you,  Rachey.  Eh,  Rachey?  I  Ve  got  you,  an' 
you  Ve  got  me ;  an'  together  we  '11  face  the 
world.  Won't  we,  deary  ?  Look  at  me,  Rachel ; 
look  at  me.  Ye  do  care  for  me  ?  " 

Rachel  looked  up  frankly  at  him. 

"  Ye  need  n't  ask  that,  John,"  said  she.  "  Ye 
know  I  'd  go  to  the  ends  o'  the  earth  for  ye. 
Only  —  " 

"  Only  what,  Rachel  ?  " 

Her  eyes  fell  again. 

"  Only,  ye  know,  John,  I  don't  like  this 
between  you  an'  your  father.  It 's  wrong." 


The  Splendid  Shilling.  189 

"  Let  that  go,"  said  John,  and  took  her  hand 
in  his.  "Let  that  go;  'twas  to  be.  We'll 
manage,  never  fear.  I  '11  work  the  hands  off 
me  to  serve  ye.  We  '11  manage ;  maybe  in  a 
year  or  two  I  'd  have  more  land  an'  better  than 
what 's  gone." 

"Oh,  it's  not  that,  John}  it's  not  that.  I 
don't  mind  the  loss,  or  what 's  before  us,  or  — 
It 's  not  that.  It 's  your  being  sent  away,  sent 
away  wi'  a  curse  on  ye.  It 's  this  between  you 
an'  your  father;  it 's  because  I  'm  the  cause  of 
it  all.  Oh,  it 's  wrong,  it 's  wrong !  " 

"  Ah,  whisht,  Rachel ;  whisht !  Woman  dear, 
it's  nothin'.  Sure  ye  wouldn't  have  me  give 
ye  up  ?  Eh  ?  Would  ye  have  me  put  father 
an'  the  land  an'  the  rest  all  before  you  ?  Eh, 
Rachey?" 

"  No,  no ;  but  it 's  wrong,  wrong.  John,  it 
must  n't  be;  it  won't  be ;  sooner  than  have  such 
a  thing  on  my  soul,  I  'd  go  —  I  'd  go  an'  never 
see  ye  again." 

"  Never  see  me  again  ?  "  repeated  John.  He 
caught  her  face  between  his  two  hands,  turned 
it  to  him  and  looked  straight  into  her  eyes. 
"  What 's  all  this,  Rachel  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  mean  it,  John." 


190           The  Splendid  Shilling. 

"  Ye  mean  what  ?  " 

"  I  won't  come  between  you  an'  your  father, 
John ;  I  won't  have  ye  cursed  an'  turned  out  of 
home.  Oh,  can't  ye  see,  can't  ye  see  how  fool- 
ish, an'  miserable,  an'  wicked  it  all  is  ?  Can't 
ye  see  how  sorry  ye  would  be  before  long,  an' 
how  angry  ye  'd  be  \vi'  me,  an'  the  struggle 
we  'd  have,  the  misery  ?  " 

John  drew  back  his  hands. 

"  Ah,  that 's  it,"  he  said,  and,  as  lovers  will 
(particularly  your  hot-headed  kind),  quickly 
changed  from  sweet  to  bitter;  "that's  it! 
You  're  afraid  to  face  the  world  wi'  me,  afraid 
o'  the  struggle  an'  misery.  This  is  what  ye 
care  for  me ! " 

"  John,"  said  the  girl,  "  don't  be  angry  wi' 
me;  try  to  see  things  as  I  do.  God  knows, 
my  heart  is  sore;  but  —  but  there's  no  other 
way.  Ye  know  —  ye  know  how  I  care  for  ye, 
more  than  heaven  an'  earth.  Ye  know  the  sore, 
sore  trial  it  is  to  me  to  have  to  say  this." 

"No,  I  don't,"  cried  John;  "I  know  no  such 
thing.  I  've  given  up  all  for  your  sake ;  I 
come  to  ye  for  help  an'  comfort;  an'  ye  turn 
from  me.'' 

"  I  don't,  I  don't.     I  want  ye  to  do  right  an' 


The  Splendid  Shilling.  191 

to  do  right  myself.  Oh,  surely,  surely,  John, 
there  's  some  other  way  ?  Surely  in  time  your 
father  would  see,  an'  forgive  me,  an'  take  the 
curse  off  ye?" 

John  jumped  up,  caught  her  hands,  and 
pulled  her  to  her  feet. 

"See  here,  Rachel,"  said  he;  "let's  under- 
stand each  other.  You  've  heard  what  I  've 
told  ye.  Ye  know  father;  ye  know  me;  ye 
know  that  whatever  happens  I  '11  not  lower  my- 
self by  goin*  to  him  now  for  forgiveness.  Are 
ye  afraid  ?  Or  are  ye  goin'  to  give  me  up  ? " 

"  I  won't  do  wrong,  John." 

"  Answer !    Will  ye  marry  me,  or  will  ye  not  ?  " 

"John,  I  can't  —  I  can't!  " 

John  dropped  her  hands;  turned  and  looked 
out  across  the  hills  —  the  hills  which  but  a  few 
hours  before  had  shone  so  hopefully,  and  which 
now  lay  black  beneath  the  hopeless  night.  Just 
to  think  of  it !  Over  there,  a  lost  inheritance ; 
at  his  back,  a  faithless,  heartless  sweetheart; 
there,  under  the  pitiless  sky,  himself,  homeless 
and  friendless!  And  this  was  the  end  ?  Good 
God !  He  turned  and  stretched  out  his  arms. 

"  I  give  ye  one  more  chance,"  he  cried. 
"  Rachel  Hoey,  as  I  am,  will  ye  marry  me  ?  " 


192  The  Splendid  Shilling. 

There  came  back  for  answer  only  a  broken 
sob ;  and  mastered  by  black  anger,  John  flung 
the  reins  to  his  tongue.  This  was  the  end  of 
all.  So  much  for  women's  word  and  vows ! 
Oh,  but  it  had  long  been  coming.  She  never 
cared  for  him.  She  had  long  wished  to  give 
him  the  go-by.  Did  he  not  see  it  ?  Who  had 
sent  her  mother  to  anger  his  father  and  bring 
things  to  a  climax  ?  Ah,  ah  !  Let  her  whisht ! 

"Ye  needn't  talk,"  cried  John,  this  angry, 
foolish  John.  "  I  know  ye  sent  her.  Ye  want 
me  to  go.  Well,  I  '11  oblige  ye.  From  this 
night  ye  see  my  face  no  more.  Ye  hear  that  ? 
An'  you  Ve  done  it,  Rachel  Hoey,  mind  ye. 
Of  your  own  will  ye 've  done  it.  Ah,  the  fool 
I  was  to  trust  your  false,  fickle  face !  May 
God  forgive  ye ;  may  God  forgive  ye !  " 

And  with  that  John  turned,  and  closing  his 
ears  to  the  pitiful  cry  which  came  to  him  from 
the  lover's  seat  beneath  the  old  apple-tree : 
"  Oh,  John,  John,  come  back,  come  back ! " 
went  out  wrathfully  into  the  night. 


The  Splendid  Shilling.  193 


III. 

For  long,  in  that  night  of  misfortune,  John 
wandered  aimlessly  through  the  silent  fields; 
now  cursing  his  fate,  now  muttering  dark  vows 
of  vengeance,  now,  as  the  monstrous  demon  of 
his  anger  tore  at  his  breast,  shouting  fiercely 
and  shaking  his  clenched  hands  at  the  solemn 
stars ;  at  last,  near  the  time  of  dawn,  found 
himself  in  the  yard  of  his  father's  house. 

For  a  moment  his  anger  went.  How  came 
he  there?  he  thought.  He  had  no  right  now 
to  a  stone  beneath  his  shoe  in  that  yard ;  what 
devil  of  torture  had  led  his  feet  thither  ?  With 
an  oath,  he  turned  and  slowly  went  down  the 
lane  towards  the  road;  then,  at  the  gate,  re- 
membering that  at  least  he  had  a  right  to  his 
own,  wheeled  suddenly  back,  boldly  crossed  the 
yard,  and  lifted  the  latch  of  the  kitchen  door. 

Much  to  his  surprise  the  door  yielded.  Very 
cautiously  (for  all  his  angry  boldness)  John 
stepped  on  tip-toe  into  the  kitchen.  Not  a 
sound  was  there ;  not  a  sound  as  he  opened  the 
passage  door  and  slipped  up  the  stairs.  Oh, 
home  of  John  Hewitt's  childhood,  thus  to  have 


194  The   Splendid   Shilling. 

him  enter  you  and,  like  a  thief,  go  slinking  for 
his  own !  You  were  born  there,  John ;  there 
your  mother  died ;  there  your  father  sleeps, 
whose  face  you  have  vowed  nevermore  to  see  : 
through  the  long  days  of  your  youth  and  early 
manhood  it  sheltered  you :  now,  like  a  thief,  you 
glide  through  it,  and  only  that  little  despised 
Mary  up  in  her  bare  attic  has  ear  or  care  for 
you !  And  it  is  all  for  the  sake  of  a  maiden  — 
a  maiden  who  has  turned  from  you,  my  poor 
angry  outcast! 

Once  in  his  room,  John  quickly  changed  his 
clothes,  took  his  little  store  of  money  from  a 
drawer,  and  noiselessly  (for  all  his  anger  and 
bravery)  started  downstairs.  On  the  landing 
he  passed  his  father's  door.  It  was  open,  and 
he  peeped  in.  The  dawn  had  come,  pale  and 
ghostly;  there  by  the  wall  his  father  lay  asleep. 
He  could  see  the  old  white  head ;  the  texts  on 
the  wall ;  the  open  Bible  on  the  dressing-table, 
with  the  spectacles  lying  across  the  leaves ;  the 
shelf  above  the  bed,  with  its  scanty  stock  of 
books  and  long  rows  of  medicine  bottles. 

The  demon  plunged  in  John's  breast.  How 
could  his  father  sleep  there  so  calmly  and  his 
own  son  an  outcast  in  the  world,  a  friendless, 


The   Splendid  Shilling.  195 

angry  outcast,  obliged  to  sneak  like  a  thief 
in  search  of  his  own?  Oh,  it  was  damnable! 
On  tip-toe  John  entered.  Black  anger  was  on 
his  soul.  The  demon  was  shouting  Vengeance. 
There,  there  snug  and  asleep,  lay  the  cause 
of  all  his  trouble.  Vengeance,  vengeance  !  cried 
the  Demon;  now,  now  is  your  time.  A  sudden 
blow,  a  sudden  swift  .  .  . 

The  first  ray  of  sunlight  shot  across  the  dark 
counterpane,  and  turned  to  the  colour  of  blood 
there  before  the  young  man's  eyes.  Blood ! 
Murder!  The  word  was  blazoned  all  round 
the  room.  His  hands  flashed  red  before  his 
face.  With  a  cry  as  of  a  stricken  animal,  he 
turned  swiftly,  ran  down,  and  out  of  the  house. 

And  soon  after,  a  little  black  figure  also  went 
out  and  followed  in  his  footsteps. 

Hardly  knowing  whither  he  went,  and  not 
much  caring,  John  made  across  the  fields, 
and  before  long  struck  the  Bunn  road.  The 
sun  was  risen;  its  strong,  fresh  rays  smote 
him  with  utter  weariness;  presently,  he  broke 
through  a  hedge,  stretched  himself  in  the  shade 
of  a  haycock,  and  soon  was  fast  asleep.  And 
close  by,  that  little  figure  in  black  watched  and 
waited. 


196  The  Splendid  Shilling. 

About  mid-day  John  woke,  sat  awhile  in  deep 
thought  (thinking,  no  doubt,  though  as  yet  with 
no  very  lively  horror,  of  that  horrible  temptation 
which  but  a  few  hours  before  had  come  to  him); 
at  last  rose,  and  once  more  took  to  the  road. 
He  was  hungry  and  weary ;  the  day  was  bright 
and  gracious,  but  left  him  spiritless;  in  his 
breast  anger  was  already  nigh  dispossession 
before  the  stress  of  a  fine  spirit  of  recklessness. 
An  hour  or  two  brought  him  to  Bunn  town, 
climbing  white  and  straggling  up  from  the 
tumbling  river;  and  there  quickly  he  sought 
meat  and  drink. 

At  that  time  a  disastrous  war  was  draining 
these  islands  of  its  manhood ;  and  through  most 
of  our  towns  (through  those,  at  all  events,  which, 
like  Bunn,  boasted  a  barracks  among  its  public 
buildings)  recruiting  sergeants  stalked  proudly 
in  scarlet  and  ribbons.  That  day,  the  quick 
eye  of  the  Bunn  sergeant,  as  he  sat  in  the 
bar-parlour  of  the  Diamond  Hotel,  winding  his 
silver  tongue  into  the  dull  ear  of  some  hillside 
yokel,  fell  upon  our  outcast  sitting  forlorn  over 
his  meal  in  the  corner.  Here  was  his  man, 
thought  he ;  soon,  having  hooked  his  innocent, 
he  was  busy  spreading  the  roll  of  glory  before 


The  Splendid  Shilling.  197 

the  listless  eyes  of  John.  Ah,  the  army  was  the 
place  for  your  strong,  clever  fellow,  your  well- 
educated,  handsome,  big  fellow;  nowhere  was 
promotion  quicker  or  surer,  particularly  then  in 
times  of  war;  the  life  was  noble,  healthy;  the 
girls  ran  wild  after  you. 

"  I  say,  sergeant,"  John  broke  in  ;  "  leave  the 
girls  alone,  my  son ;  ye  '11  not  tempt  me  wi' 
them.  Damn  them!  say  I." 

The  sergeant  looked  hard  at  John;  then 
smiled  knowingly  to  himself,  called  for  more 
drink,  and  went  on  with  his  skilful  tappings 
on  the  drum  of  Glory.  Ah,  the  sport  soldiers 
had,  the  free  and  easy  life;  no  cares,  no  troubles, 
plenty  of  food  and  drink,  plenty  of  devilment ; 
and,  at  the  end,  a  glorious  return  to  friends  and 
home. 

"  Never  mind  that  either,  sergeant,"  said  John. 
"  There 's  no  home  for  me  now,  nor  friends.  I  'm 
done  wi'  them,  damn  them  one  an'  all !  Divil 
cares !  Out  wi'  your  shillin',  my  son,  an'  pass 
the  liquor." 

So  John  took  the  shilling;  and  at  sight  of  it 
lying  bright  in  his  palm,  an  idea  came  to  him, 
a  brilliant  idea,  he  was  sure  (as,  indeed,  it  was 
bound  to  be,  being  born  of  anger  and  reckless- 


198  The   Splendid   Shilling. 

ness  and  the  fumes  of  recruiting  whisky);  one 
which  made  him  slap  his  leg,  and  laugh  loud, 
and  vow  with  an  oath  that  the  army  was  soon  to 
receive  a  thundering  comical  dog. 

"Easy  a  while,  sergeant,"  said  he;  "take 
another  glass  till  I  write  a  scrape.  Hi,  there ! 
More  drink,  an'  that  paper  an'  ink  as  fast  as  ye 
can.  Now  easy,  my  son,  easy;  I  '11  not  be  a 
tick,  for  the  words  are  on  the  tip  o'  my  tongue. 
Whisht  now,  an'  don't  spoil  sport,"  said  John, 
as,  spreading  his  elbows  and  calling  to  his  face 
a  smile  of  supreme  satisfaction,  he  began  a 
letter;  presently  finished  it,  and  with  the  shilling 
enclosed  it  in  an  envelope. 

"  Now,  sergeant,"  said  he,  as  with  a  great 
flourish  he  finished  the  address  on  the  cover; 
"  now,  my  son,  I ' m  ready.  Ye  see  that  letter  ? 
Well,  that 's  the  finest  joke  I  ever  made,  the 
very  finest."  (God  forgive  him,  how  often,  after- 
wards, when  lying  weary  and  home-sick  under 
foreign  skies,  did  he  think  with  wondering  shame 
of  that  heartless  joke.)  "  Boys,  when  that  comes 
to  the  right  place  it  '11  make  the  man  dance  wi' 
rage.  Och,  och,  but  Irishmen  are  the  play-boys, 
full  o'  fun  they  are.  Look  here,  sergeant;  this 
mornin'  at  daybreak  —  But  no  matter,  that  V 


The  Splendid  Shilling.  199 

all  gone.  I  don't  care  a  bucky  now  for  all  the 
fathers  in  Ireland !  No  more  drink  ?  Come 
on !  Well,  well,  then ;  off  we  go  —  off  for  death 
or  glory." 

So  the  two  swaggered  out :  and  half-way  down 
Main  Street,  just  as  John  was  turning  into  the 
post  office,  a  little  figure  in  black  ran  from  a 
shop  door  and  caught  John  by  the  arm. 

"Aw,  Sir,  Sir,"  cried  Mary,  the  servant;  "ye 
have  n't  done  it  ?  Ye  have  n't  listed  ?  Och, 
don't  say  it !  It  '11  brek  me  —  me  —  Och,  no !  " 

The  sergeant  laughed  knowingly  and  turned 
away ;  he  was  used  to  scenes  like  that. 

"  Ay,  Mary,"  answered  John  ;  I  'm  off  —  off 
to  the  wars,  my  girl.  The  morrow  or  next 
day  '11  see  me  in  scarlet  red.  But  what  brings 
you  here,  Mary  ?  " 

Mary 's  eyes  fell. 

" Ah,"  said  she,  "I  —  I  —  Master  sent  me  a 
message.  Ah,  no,  Sir,"  she  went  on  hurriedly ; 
"  ah,  no ;  don't  leave  us  ;  don't,  Sir.  The  mas- 
ter '11  forgive  ye.  Come  back,  Sir.  Ah  do,  for 
God's  sake  ! " 

John  laughed  down  at  the  serious  little  face. 

"  No,  no,"  said  he,  "  there 's  no  forgiveness 
for  me  now,  an'  I  want  none.  Good-bye,  Mary, 


2OO  The  Splendid  Shilling. 

an'  —  Look  here,  take  this  letter  to  father. 
Just  give  it  him  an'  say  nothin'.  Good-bye, 
Mary ;  safe  home,  an'  God  be  with  ye !  " 

"  Ah,  no,  no,  Sir !  Ah,  no,  no  !  I  can't  bear 
it.  Ah,  God  ha'  mercy!  He 's  gone,  he  's  gone, 
an'  niver,  niver  will  I  see  his  face  again  !  Ah ; 
Mister  John,  Mister  John,  come  back  to  me, 
come  back ! " 

But  John  went  on  gloriously  up  Barrack  Hill- 
Some  time  that  same  day,  a  tax-cart,  driven  by 
an  old  man,  as  it  turned  off  into  the  Bunn  road, 
was  met  by  a  young  girl.     Quickly  she  stepped 
from  the  side-path  and  snatched  at  the  reins. 
"  Mr.  Hewitt,"  said  she,   "  is  John  at  home  ?  " 
The  old  man  looked  down  into  the  girl's  piti- 
ful face,  all  pale  and  worn  with  weeping.     So 
this  was  John's  sweetheart ;  this  was  the  lass 
who  had  made  him  curse  John,  and  disown  him, 
and  turn  him  from  home.     A  bonnie  lass  she 
was,  a  bonnie  —     But  John,  where  was  John  ? 
"No,  my  lass,"  answered  he,  "he's  not  at 
home.     But  you  —  surely  you  —  ?  " 

"No,   no,"  cried  Rachel;   "he  left  me  last 
night,  left  me  in  anger.     He  said  he'd  never  — 
Oh,  Sir,  where  is  he  ?  " 
The  old  man  took  his  eyes  from  Rachel's 


The   Splendid  Shilling.  201 

face  and  looked  slowly  across  the  sun-lit  fields. 
Was  he  too  late  ?  he  asked  himself.  Was  his 
repentance  too  late  ?  Was  God  now  punishing 
him  for  his  hardness  and  anger?  Was  John 
gone  ?  Ah,  that  dream  which  had  come  to  him 
at  dawn  that  morning !  His  mind  was  full  of 
it.  For  the  hundredth  time  that  morning,  he 
saw  again  that  pleading  figure  stand  by  his 
bed-foot,  stretch  out  its  hands  imploringly, 
then  turn  from  him,  and  with  a  great  cry  hurry 
from  the  room.  And  he  had  lain  there  in  his 
obstinacy,  nor  moved  a  finger  at  the  bidding  of 
a  righteous  God  !  And  now  —  ? 

He  looked  again  at  Rachel. 

"  God  knows,  my  lass,"  said  he.  "  God 
knows  where  John  is.  But  come  ;  jump  up, 
maybe  we  M  both  find  him." 

So  these  two,  John's  father  and  his  sweet- 
heart, drove  on  together  towards  Bunn;  and 
half-way  there,  Mary  the  servant  stopped  them, 
and  delivered  John's  letter. 

Very  deliberately  —  for  there  was  something 
like  dread  on  his  heart  —  the  old  man  put  down 
the  reins  and  tore  open  the  envelope.  A  coin 
dropped  out,  jingled  on  the  bottom  of  the  cart, 
rolled  out  upon  the  road,  and  was  picked  up  by 


2O2  The   Splendid  Shilling. 

Mary  the  servant.  Slowly  the  old  man  read 
the  letter ;  then,  without  a  word,  handed  it  to 
Rachel. 

Dear  Sir,  —  she  read,  —  Before  you  kicked  me  out 
of  your  house  you  swore  to  cut  me  off  with  a  shilling. 
As  I  am  sure  you  -would  begrudge  me  even  that, 
and  as  I  have  no  wish  to  be  beholden  to  you  for  any- 
thing, /  herewith  enclose  twelve  pence  sterling,  being 
the  amount  which  you  have  decided  to  leave  me  under 
the  terms  of  your  new  will.  I  may  add  that  the  money 
has  just  been  handed  to  me  by  one  James  Brown,  re- 
cruiting sergeant  of  one  of  Her  Majesty's  Regiments  of 
Foot.  No  receipt  is  necessary. 

Yours,  JOHN  HEWITT. 

P.  S.  —  You  will  never  see  my  face  again. 

"  Never  see  his  face  again  ? "  cried  Rachel. 
"  Never ! " 

"  Niver  see  him  again  ?  "  cried  Mary  the  ser- 
vant, and  clutched  her  shilling  hard.  "  Is  that 
what  Mister  John  says?  Aw,  dear  Lord,  dear 
Lord!" 

The  old  man  picked  up  the  reins  and  turned 
for  home. 

"  Never  see  him  again  ? "  said  he,  as  if  to 
himself.  "  Never  see  his  face  again  ?  " 

And  they  never  did ;  for  in  the  wars  John's 
portion  was  not  glory. 


The  Emigrant. 


The   Emigrant. 


SHE  leant  out  of  the  carriage  window  and  saw 
the  van-door  close ;  then  called  to  the  porter  if 
her  box  were  safe  and  sound. 

"  Aw,  ay,"  said  he,  and  slouched  up,  wiping 
the  wet  from  his  hand  on  his  corduroys  ;  "  aw, 
ay ;  it  '11  follow  ye  safe  to  Clogheen,  anyhow. 
Good-bye,  an'  God  speed  ye  !" 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  and  gave  him  her  hand. 
"  But  are  n't  the  rest  o'  ye  comin'  ?  "  she  called. 

The  station-master  came  and  gave  her  a  part- 
ing word ;  then  two  or  three  town  loiterers ; 
then  the  station-master's  wife,  with  a  shawl  over 
her  head,  and  picking  her  way  through  the 
puddles;  last  of  all  came  a  man  —  the  girl's 
father,  one  could  see  —  running  stiffly,  and 
glancing  back  often  at  the  horse  and  cart  stand- 
ing forlorn  outside  the  gate. 


206  The  Emigrant. 

"  Good-bye,  Mary,"  he  said,  "  an'  God  be  with 
ye,  me  girl."  He  held  her  hand  for  a  second 
or  two  and  his  lips  kept  moving  whilst  she  an- 
swered bravely.  "  Ye  'ill  write  from  New  York  ?  " 

"  I  will  —  aw,  at  once." 

"  Do — don't  keep  us  waitin',"  he  said;  then 
stood  back  with  the  others,  and  blinked  at  the 
driving  rain.  She  pulled  a  handkerchief  from  a 
battered  brown  hand-bag,  and  nervously  wiped 
her  lips. 

"  Ah,"  called  she,  "  ye  all  thought  yes  'd  see 
me  cryin'.  Ah,  I  tricked  ye  rightly." 

"  Ah,  no,"  answered  the  porter ;  "  we  knew 
ye  'd  be  brave." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  assented  the  rest,  and  shifted  their 
legs  ;  "  ay,  ay." 

"  Away  ye  go,"  shouted  the  guard ;  the 
engine  shrieked  ;  Mary  shook  out  her  handker- 
chief and  called  good-bye ;  her  friends  waved 
an  arm ;  she  had  started  for  the  States. 

"  They  thought  I  'd  cry,"  said  she,  as  she  sat 
back  and  fell  to  plucking  at  the  fingers  of  her 
woollen  gloves.  "  They  thought  I  'd  cry  — 
och,  no  ! " 

She  was  brave ;  yet  her  lips  were  quivering, 
and  her  eyes  were  turned  mournfully  on  the  fields 


The  Emigrant.  207 

and  hedges  and  the  cottages  here  and  there  shin- 
ing white  through  the  grey  drift  of  the  rain. 

"  We  '11  soon  be  at  it,"  she  said  presently. 
"  Ah,  Lord,  the  day  it  is  I  An'  the  state  I  'min ; 
och,  och."  She  stooped  and  wrung  the  water 
from  her  bedraggled  skirt.  "  An'  me  hair  that 
tattered ;  aw,  it 's  shockin' !  But  I  did  n't 
cry,"  she  said,  and  flashed  her  black  eyes  at  me. 
"  Och,  no.  Whisht !  we  're  gettin'  near  it.  Aw, 
there  it  is;  there  they  are  !  Good-bye,  muther! 
Good-bye,  Patsey,  an'  Johnny,  an'  Lizzie  f 
Good-bye  all.'" 

I  stood  up,  and  over  her  hat  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  group  gathered  on  the  street  before  the 
cottage :  the  mother  in  her  night-cap,  the 
children  bare-legged,  all  waving  their  arms  and 
caps,  and  crying  their  farewells. 

"Good-bye,"  cried  Mary  back  through  the 
rain  ;  "  och,  good-bye ! " 

That  was  the  last  of  them  she  would  see,  she 
said,  as  she  sat  down  again,  the  last,  till  the 
Lord  knew  when.  She  was  for  the  States? 
asked  some  one.  Ah,  she  was ;  she  could  get 
work  there;  she  could  do  nothing  at  home. 
Sure,  it  was  better  to  go  than  to  be  a  burden  on 
them  all.  Ah,  yes ;  she  had  been  out  before 


20 8  The  Emigrant. 

an'  had  come  home  to  settle,  but  —  but,  and 
her  handkerchief  went  fast  to  her  lips  —  well, 
things  had  turned  out  troublesome.  She  'd  do 
better  out  there  ;  there  were  too  many  at  home, 
and  her  mother  was  poorly.  Ah,  an',  sure, 
times  were  shockin'  bad. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  the  men  went  in  chorus ;  "  they 
are,  they  are ; "  then  looked  mournfully  at  her 
red  cheeks,  and  from  one  to  another  passed  the 
word  that  she  was  a  brave  girl,  so  she  was ;  a 
brave  girl ;  and  God  speed  her,  said  they,  as  one 
by  one  they  went  out  clumsily  at  Glann  station, 
and  left  Mary  and  me  together. 

It  was  fair-day  at  Glann ;  therefore  did  the 
train  settle  itself  by  the  platform  for  a  long  rest. 

"  The  guard  mebbe  's  gone  to  see  the  fair," 
said  Mary ;  and  I  laughed,  stamped  vigorously 
(for  it  was  cold)  across  the  carriage  floor,  wiped 
the  window,  and  looked  out. 

Down  the  further  bank  of  the  railway,  along 
a  narrow  path  which  had  started  beyond  the 
fields  somewhere  near  the  town,  was  coming 
a  little  procession  of  six  men,  bearing  a  coffin  on 
a  rough  hurdle  made  of  ash  poles.  The  men 
were  bare-headed :  a  single  bunch  of  wild-flowers 
lay  atop  the  streaming  coffin;  there  were  no 


The  Emigrant.  209 

mourners,  nor  anywhere  could  one  see  any  sign 
of  sorrow  or  curiosity.  They  came  on  down, 
the  men  with  their  pitiful  burden,  crossed  a  track, 
came  to  a  siding,  slid  the  coffin  into  a  fish-van, 
shut  the  door,  pulled  their  soft  felt  hats  from 
their  pockets,  mopped  then-  faces,  then  took 
shelter  behind  the  van  and  lit  their  pipes. 
There  wanted  only  a  bottle  to  make  the  scene 
complete,  and  I  was  confidently  watching  for  it, 
when  right  at  my  elbow  arose  a  great  sobbing. 

"Aw,  aw,"  cried  Mary;  "did  ye  see?  Did 
ye  see  ?  Och !  what  a  way  to  be  tr'ated !  An' 
such  a  day  for  a  buryin' !  All  out  in  the  wet  — 
the  wet  an'  the  cowld.  Aw,  poor  crature  !  Aw, 
muther,  muther,  ye  '11  die,  ye  'ill  die !  I  '11  niver 
see  ye  again,  nor  father,  nor  no  one.  Aw,  it 's 
cruel  to  lave  ye.  I  '11  go  back ;  1 11  go  back  !  " 

Her  sobs  were  pitiful.  Loiterers  began  to 
gather  round  the  door.  It  was  only  a  poor  girl 
going  to  America,  I  explained  ;  they  would  pity 
her,  I  was  sure.  Ah,  they  would,  said  they, 
and  went,  all  but  one :  a  big,  sunburnt  fellow 
dressed  in  rough  tweed,  who  came  forward  and 
asked  my  leave.  For  what  ?  Ah,  he  knew  the 
girl ;  came  in,  went  over  and  laid  a  rough  hand 
on  Mary's  shoulder. 

14 


2io  The  Emigrant. 

"  Ah,  don't,"  she  said.  "I'll  go  home,  I  '11  go 
home." 

"  What  ails  ye,  Mary,  at  all  ?  "  said  he,  and 
shook  her  again. 

She  turned. 

"  Ah,  God  A'mighty,  James ! "  she  cried ; 
and  her  tears  went.  It's  you?  Where  are  ye 
goin'  ?  What  brings  ye  ?  Who  towld  ye  ?  " 

James  sat  down  heavily,  and  began  beating 
his  boot  with  his  stick.  Ah,  he  'd  been  to  the 
fair,  had  sold  early,  was  waiting  for  a  train  to 
take  him  home. 

"  Where  are  ye  goin'  ? "  he  said  over  his 
shoulder.  "  What  wur  ye  bleartin'  about  ?  " 

Mary  hung  her  head  and  did  not  answer. 

"  Where  are  ye  goin'  ?  "  he  said  again. 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly,  almost  de- 
fiantly. 

"  To  the  States." 

He  nodded;  began  again  the  tattoo  on  his 
boot,  and  before  another  word  came  the  train 
had  started. 

"We're  goin',"  said  Mary.  "  Hurry  an'  say 
good-bye,  or  they'll  shut  ye  in." 

"  No  matter,"  he  answered;  "  I'll  stay  where 
I  am." 


The  Emigrant.  211 

The  maid  sat  apart  from  the  man,  and 
answered  his  abrupt,  mannerless  questions  as 
bravely  as  she  might. 

Why  was  she  going?  Ah,  he  knew;  there 
was  no  need  to  ask. 

Why  had  she  not  told  him  ?  Better  not ;  what 
was  the  use  ?  All  was  over  between  them. 

The  man  eyed  her  wonderingly.  Over  ?  he 
repeated.  Over?  Did  she  not  know  he  was 
ready  to  make  it  up,  and  —  to  do  his  best  ?  Ay, 
yes,  she  knew  ;  still  — 

Still,  what?  It  was  better  to  go,  she  said, 
and  looked  tearfully  out  at  the  flying  fields. 

Yes,  it  was  better  to  go ;  I  agreed  with  Mary. 
He  was  a  lout,  for  certain ;  a  good-for-nothing, 
by  all  chance.  She  would  lose  nothing  by  leav- 
ing him.  There,  there,  sitting  beside  her,  was 
the  trouble  about  which  she  had  spoken.  She 
had  come  home  to  settle  down  with  him ;  but 
things  had  been  troublesome.  Ah,  yes.  One 
knew  it  all.  He  had  been  easy-going  and  lazy; 
wanted  things  to  turn  up,  felt  no  inclination  to 
hurry  into  married  cares.  Aw,  sure,  he  could 
wait  awhile ;  and  if  he,  then  Mary.  Some- 
thing like  that  it  had  been  ;  anyhow,  Mary  had 
not  settled.  They  had  quarrelled,  and  now 


212  The  Emigrant. 

she  was  leaving  him  for  better  or  worse.  She 
was  wise.  Had  the  man  no  bowels  ?  Had  he 
nothing  for  her  but  hard  questions  and  pitying 
looks  ?  Would  he  not,  before  he  went,  say  one 
kind  word  to  this  girl  who  had  trusted  in  his 
word  and  manhood,  and  finding  them  wanting 
was  now  leaving  him  for  ever  ?  Did  there  not 
some  golden  memory  linger  about  his  heart  ? 
Not  one.  He  was  wooden  to  the  core.  He 
would  sit  on  there,  tapping  his  boot  and  staring 
at  his  big  freckled  hands,  neither  hurt  nor  sorry, 
but  just  wondering  that  a  girl  could  be  such  a 
fool ;  the  train  would  stop,  and  with  a  nod  and 
a  flabby  shake  of  the  hand,  he  would  take  him- 
self out  into  the  rain.  And  good  riddance  ! 

The  train  slowed  ;  Mary's  lips  began  to 
quiver.  The  train  stopped  ;  I  gathered  in  my 
legs,  so  that  the  fellow  might  pass  without  touch- 
ing me.  He  raised  his  head  and  looked  out  at 
the  sky. 

"  Ah,  I  may  as  well  g'  wan  to  the  junction," 
he  drawled;  "  it'll  be  all  the  same  ;  one  could 
do  nothin'  such  a  day,  anyhow." 

"  Yis,"  said  M  ary,  and  not  cheerlessly.  "  Sure, 
ye  may  as  well. " 

We  sat  silent  all  the  way  to  Clogheen,   and 


The  Emigrant.  213 

there  we  parted :  Mary,  so  it  was  set  down,  to 
catch  a  train  North,  James  one  back  home,  and 
I  to  do  my  work  in  the  town. 

Two  hours  afterwards  I  met  the  two  in  the 
rain-swept  streets,  and  in  my  surprise  stopped 
short  before  them.  Mary  looked  up  and 
laughed. 

"  Ah,"  said  she,  "  I  'm  here  yit ;  that  train 
went  without  me." 

"Oh,"  said  I;  "that's  very  bad;  why,  the 
next  won't  be  here  for  hours.  And  you're 
drenched  ?  But  —  but —  "  and  I  looked  at  James 
as  he  stood,  slightly  flushed  and  dripping  wet, 
blankly  staring  across  the  street. 

"  Ah,  yis,"  Mary  answered.  "  James  missed 
his,  too;  I'm  not  goin'  at  all;  sure,  we've 
made  it  up." 

I  put  my  watch  slowly  back  into  my  pocket 
and  nodded.  "  James  has  promised  me," 
she  went  on,  and  her  eyes  fell ;  "  an'  we  're 
goin'  to  get  marr'ed  come  harvest-time;  an' 
he  '11  try  hard  for  a  place  at  the  big  house  above. 
An'  —  an'  —  God  knows,  Sir,  I  'm  not  sorry,  for 
me  heart  was  sore  at  lavin'  home." 

They  knew  their  own  business  best ;  but  there 
fell  an  awkward  silence,  so  I  asked  James  con- 


214  The  Emigrant. 

cerning  his  prospects.  Did  he  see  his  way 
clearly  ? 

Ah,  he  did ;  and  began  tapping  his  boots. 
Sure,  there  was  always  a  way  if  one  could 
only  wait  till  it  came.  "  Is  n't  she  better 
here,  anyway,  whatever  comes,"  said  he,  and 
gave  me  a  moment's  glimpse  at  his  face,  "  than 
out  yonder  wid  the  strangers  ?  Sure,  't  was  mad- 
ness av  her  to  think  o'  it ;  sure,  Providence 
sent  me  to  Glann  fair." 

Providence  ?  And  had  Providence  sent  also 
that  dismal  procession  to  the  fish-van,  that 
Mary  might  see  it  and  sob  for  her  friends,  and 
her  James,  and  the  home  of  her  heart  ? 

"  And  you,  Mary  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Axzyou  quite 
satisfied  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yis,"  said  she  mournfully.  "  Ah,  I 
hope  so." 

I  took  her  into  a  shop  and  bought  her  a  little 
wedding  gift  —  a  silver  brooch,  shaped  like  a 
harp  and  set  with  green  marble,  then  wished 
them  more  happiness  than  I  ever  hoped  they 
would  have,  and  went  my  way. 

Three  hours  afterwards  saw  me  at  Clogheen 
station  again,  and  there  was  Mary,  standing  de- 
jected by  her  little  yellow  box. 


The  Emigrant.  215 

M  Not  gone  home  yet,  Mary  ?  "  I  asked. 

Her  handkerchief  fluttered  out. 

"  No-o,  Sir.  I  —  was  lookin'  for  ye.  I  —  I 
wanted  to  give  ye  back  this ; "  and  she  held  out 
the  brooch.  "  I  '11  niver  wear  it.  Och,  it 's  all 
over.  I  —  I  'm  goin'  on  to  catch  the  ship." 

It  was  well.  I  determined  that  this  time 
neither  Providence  nor  emotion  should  hinder 
her  going. 

"  Ah,  no,"  she  sobbed ;  "  't  was  only  foolish- 
ness. Me  heart  was  sore  at  lavin'  them  all ;  an' 
the  sight  o'  that  coffin  an'  James  comin'  like 
that—  Och,  I  cud  n't  bear  it!  But  'twas 
foolish  av  me ;  it 's  better  for  me  to  go." 

I  took  the  brooch,  pinned  it  on  her  jacket, 
and  spoke  a  foolish  word  or  two  by  way  of 
comfort.  She  would,  I  hoped,  wear  it  for  my 
sake,  if  not  for  .  .  . 

"  Aw,  Sir,"  she  burst  out,  "  if  he  'd  only  been 
steady!  for  I  liked  him  well.  Och,  och  ! " 

She  turned  and  looked  down  the  platform ; 
there  sat  James,  drunk  and  asleep. 


A  Beggar's  Benefit. 


A  Beggar's   Benefit. 


ALL  day  long  Phelim  had  piped  enticingly 
from  the  sidewalks  and  longingly  from  the 
thresholds  of  the  citizens ;  and  now,  the  fair 
being  over,  and  people  thinking  of  home,  Phelim 
had  pocketed  his  tin  whistle  and,  in  the  market- 
place before  Lismahee  town-hall,  stood  within  a 
ring  of  admirers  preparing  to  give  his  farewell 
performance. 

"Gather  up,  gather  up,  me  sons  an'  daugh- 
ters," he  shouted,  and  shook  himself  inside  his 
rags.  "Come  and  hear  ould  Phelim  for  the 
last  time  for  a  whole  month.  Come,  childer, 
come.  Gather  up,  gather  up.  Is  jaynius 
to  whistle  to  the  winds  an'  die  for  lack  of 
bread  ?  Aw,  pity  the  poor  blind,"  he  whined 
with  a  sudden  change  of  tone.  "  Och,  pity  the 
poor  blind.  Long  I  Ve  travelled,  hard  I  Ve 


22O  A  Beggar's  Benefit. 

wrought  this  day.  Up  to  heaven  I  cry :  Och, 
pity  the  poor  blind  /" 

The  wheedling  whine  of  him,  so  humorously 
pitiful,  came  shrill  through  the  street;  at  sound 
of  it,  you  could  see  men's  hands  go  quick  to 
their  pockets,  and  themselves  press  through  the 
crowd  to  get  a  nearer  look  at  the  old  beggar 
standing  there  blind  and  helpless  within  the 
ring,  crying  shrilly  up  to  heaven  for  pity  for  the 
poor  blind. 

"  Pity  poor  ould  Phelim,"  he  cried ;  and 
placing  his  hands  atop  his  staff  waited  eagerly 
for  his  appeal  to  bring  the  pence  rattling  into 
the  battered  hat  that  rested  before  him  on  the 
stones. 

A  fine  head  he  had  (he  was  a  schoolmaster 
once  in  the  days  before  blindness  and  beggary ) 
and  strong  regular  features ;  his  long  yellow- 
white  hair  streamed  back  from  his  brow  and 
fell  curling  on  his  drooping  shoulders ;  a  tattered 
frieze  coat  (caught  at  the  waist  with  a  cord) 
hung  round  him  almost  to  his  feet,  and  part 
covered  a  dog  which  lay  on  the  stones,  its  head 
resting  across  Phelim's  shoes. 

"  Pity  poor  ould  Phelim,"  he  wailed  ;  then 
suddenly  found  his  natural  voice.  "  I  don't 


A  Beggar's  Benefit.  221 

hear  them  coppers  tumblin'  in,"  he  said  sharply 
to  those  around  him.  "How  many  hours 
longer  are  ye  goin'  to  keep  me,  when  a  penny 
among  six  o'  ye  'd  start  me  ?  Come,  boys,  be 
Irishmen.  Sure  the  blood  o'  ye  loathes  mean- 
ness. Rattle  them  in,  me  sons.  That^s  right. 
Never  heed  the  ould  beaver ;  like  meself  it  '11 
stand  a  power  o'  batterin'  from  money.  I  wish 
to  glory  it  was  full  o'  bank  notes.  It's  me- 
self 'd  scatter  ribs  o'  beef  among  ye  an'  stand  for 
the  county  next  election.  Did  I  hear  a  penny 
fallin'  then?  Or  was  it  only  a  jingle  in  some 
miser's  pocket  ?  Come,  lads,  come.  That 's 
right.  One  more?  Hurroo.  Another?  Heart 
o'  mine,  it 's  rainin'  them  now.  What,"  and 
Phelim  turned  his  face  towards  the  sky,  "  is 
the  shower  over  ?  Well,  well.  Ock,  pity  the 
poor  blind !  "  he  whined  as  he  stooped  and 
groped  for  his  hat ;  lifted  it,  and  coin  by  coin 
counted  his  takings  into  a  dirty  wallet. 

"Whisht,"  he  would  say  as  the  coppers 
dropped ;  "  there  goes  another,  makin' fifteen  o' 
them  —  all  ha'pence,  as  me  father  was  a  king ! 
Sixteen,  as  I  'm  a  sinner !  Wonder's  '11  niver 
cease.  Nineteen.  Will  there  be  twenty  f  Och, 
will  there  be  twenty?  Wait.  Aw,  there  is, 


222  A  Beggar's  Benefit. 

there  is.  Twenty-three.  Will  there  be  two 
shillin's  or  will  there  not  ?  Two  shillings  did  I 
say  ?  Och,  I  forget ;  an'  them  all  ha'pence. 
Ah,  childer  dear,  Irelan's  gone  to  pot.  Only 
twenty-nine  this  blessed  day.  Twenty-nine 
ha'pence  from  such  a  crowd !  Och,  och.  An* 
on  such  a  day,  wi'  the  sun  pourin'  down  on  me 
poor  ould  skull.  Well,  childer,  dear  forgive  ye  ; 
an'  in  case  the  stony  hearts  o'  any  o'  ye  wid 
chance  to  melt,  there  's  the  ould  caubeen  on  the 
stones  again  ready  for  all  it'll  get.  Aw,  pity 
the  poor  blind!'1''  he  whined  again  as  he  stooped 
and  set  the  hat  beside  the  dog ;  then  straightened 
himself  and  raised  his  face. 

"  Stand  back  from  me  there,"  cried  Phelim, 
and  swung  his  staff  round  the  ring.  "  Crowd 
back  an'  give  me  elbow  room.  Where  am  I  ? 
Am  I  in  the  middle  o'  the  ring  ?  I  am.  Well, 
am  I  straight  under  the  town  clock  ?  I  am. 
An'  tell  me,  is  the  purtiest  girl  in  Lismahee 
right  afore  me?  Och,  is  she?  Now  don't 
laugh.  Are  ye  there,  Mavourneen  f  Well,  in 
the  light  o'  your  blessed  eyes,  ould  Phelim  '11 
sing  ye  a  song — not  av  love  an'  beauty,  aw, 
no  —  jist  a  wee  trifle  about  meself,  out  o'  me 
own  head.  Are  ye  listening  Mavourneen  ?  Well, 


A  Beggar's  Benefit.  223 

now  then. "    And  stretching  his  hands  and  pluck- 
ing at  imaginary  harp-strings,  Phelim  sang :  — 

"  It 's  meself  is  an  Irish  bard,  a  pote  wild  an'  free ; 
I  drive  my  winged  Pegaysus  hard,  an'  its  flight 

I  accompany 
Wid  my  harp,  tow-row,  wid  my  harp  1 

"  Will  ye  whisht  till  I  touch  the  strings !    Keep  still 

as  I  sing  my  lay  1 
Hish,  shish,   to   the  sound  o'  my  muse's   wings 

keepin'  time  to  the  swing  an'  sway 
Of  my  harp,  tow-row,  of  my  harp  I 

"  I  sing  of  trouble  an"  of  joy :  when  me  spirit 's  sad 

I  moan : 
When  times  are  good  I  'm  a  joyous  boy :  in  the 

house  of  the  dead  I  groan  — 
Wid  my  harp,  tow-row,  wid  my  harp  I 

"  Sometimes   on   a  ditch   I   sit  an'    thrum  to  the 

passers-by : 
When  the  coppers  come  I  'm  full  o'  wit,  but  I  'm 

sad  when  they  don't,  an'  sigh  — 
Wid  my  harp,  tow-row,  wid  my  harp  f 

"  Now  an'  then  to  a  weddin'  spree,  near  to  supper- 
time,  I  run, 
An'  sing  an'  play  to  the  company  —  an'  pass  round 

the  hat  when  I  'm  done  — 
Wid  my  harp,  tow-row,  wid  my  harp  1 


224  A   Beggar's  Benefit. 

"  An  then  at  election  times  I  'm  a  patriot  fierce  an' 

true; 
I  stir  men  up  wid  fiery  rhymes  (sure,  I  'm  paid  for 

doin'  it,  too  ! )  — 
Wid  my  harp,  tow-row,  wid  my  harp  I 

"  I  perform  at  markets,  an'  fairs,  at  dances,  too,  an' 

wakes ; 
I  'm  known  by  my  brow  an'  flowin'  hairs ;  an'  my 

voice  is  grand  at  shakes  — 
Wid  my  harp,  tow-row,  wid  my  harp  ! 

"So  here  an'  there  I  roam;  up  an'  down  I  play 

an'  sing : 
Wid  the  grass  for  bed  an'  the  world  my  home,  of 

the  minstrel  boys  I  'm  king  — 
Wid  my  harp,  tow-row,  wid  my  harp  ! " 

"Good  man,  Phelim,"  cried  the  ring,  as  the 
old  man  finished,  and,  crossing  his  hands  atop 
his  staff,  waited  for  the  applause.  "  Good  man, 
Phelim.  Bully  boy.  Well  sung,  me  son." 
"  Another,"  skirled  the  ring;  "  give  us  another. 
Give  us  Connie  Roe." 

Phelim  raised  his  staff. 

"  Silence,"  he  called.  "  Silence  !  Don't  be 
tellin'  me  what  I  'm  to  give  ye.  Ye  '11  get  just 
what  ye  Ve  paid  for." 


A  Beggar's  Benefit.  225 

"  Connie  Roe"  went  the  voices  again  ;  "  give 
us  Connie  Roe" 

"  Will  ye  whisht  there  ?  "  roared  Phelim. 
"  Another  cheep  from  ye  an'  I  '11  shake  me  feet 
at  ye  all.  Connie  Roe,  indeed !  Connie  Roe 
for  nine  an'  twenty  ha'pence !  Who  wants 
Connie  Roe  f  " 

"  Ivery  one,"  came  the  roar. 

"  Then,''  said  Phelim,  and  pointed  down  at 
his  old  beaver,  "  rattle  in  a  few  more  o'  the 
brown  boys  ;  make  them  forty  all  told,  an'  I 
start.  Come,  who 's  first  ?  Quick  now.  Ho, 
ho,  there  they  go ;  pepper  the  ould  caubeen, 
childer.  Keep  at  it,  boys  —  one  after  another, 
like  Paddy's  ducks.  Och,  pity  the  poor  blind  f 
That 's  the  way.  Hurroo.  Make  it  fifty  an' 
I'll  shout  meself  hoarse.  What!  All  done? 
Well,  well,"  he  moaned  and  stooped  for  the 
beaver ;  "  dear  send  I  may  die  in  a  ditch  an' 
niver  see  the  workhouse.  Sure  me  jaynius 
won't  save  me.  Will  what 's  there  make  the 
number,  I  wonder  ?  "  he  said,  as  he  groped 
among  the  coins  and  dropped  them  through  his 
fingers.  "  I  misdoubt ;  but  no  odds ;  I  '11  trust 
ye,  childer,  I  '11  trust  ye." 

Very  skilfully  he  poured  the  coins  into  his 
15 


226  A  Beggar's  Benefit. 

wallet,  then  drew  himself  up,  ran  his  fingers 
through  his  hair,  and  in  a  measured  sing-song 
(intoning  you  might  say)  began : 

"  The  sorry  word  flew  round  the  country  side 
that  poor  ould  Connie  Roe  was  dead  and  gone, 
dead  and  gone  —  gone  home.  Big  wi'  years  was 
she  — peace  to  her  soul!  —  wi'  years  o'  poverty, 
an'  care  an'  woe.  Light  lie  her  bones!  All 
through  the  weary  years  she  passed  as  one 
whose  tongue  dropped  wisdom,  whose  life  was 
pure,  whose  hand  was  ever  stretched  to  give, 
when  givin'  meant  the  stintin'  of  herself.  Her 
end  was  peace.  Kind  willin'  hands  were  by  to 
soothe  her  passin'  an'  send  her  softly  on  her 
way.  Peace  to  her  soul!" 

The  old  man  bowed  his  head  for  a  moment  in 
the  silence  of  the  market-place;  then  quicker, 
less  doleful,  the  chant  went  on : 

"  An'  now  her  neighbours  come  wi'  willin' 
feet,  to  sit  an'  smoke,  an'  sing  sad  songs; 
to  wail,  an'  howl,  an'  glorify  the  dead  wi' 
hideous  mockery  of  the  awe  of  death.  I  see 
them  now.  There  in  the  mud-walled  room  — 
its  rafters  bright  wi'  smoke,  the  floor  of  clay, 
the  single  window  small  an'  dark,  the  gloom 
an'  smoke  blindin'  as  sleep  —  there  on  chairs, 


A  Beggar's  Benefit.  227 

on  stools,  on  sods  of  turf,  sit  men  an'  women, 
old  and  young,  now  speakin'  tender  o'  the  dead, 
now  laughin*  wild  an'  free,  now  hushed  an'  still 
as  from  ould  hags,  wi'  faces  wrung  wi'  grief, 
their  withered  arms  stretched  out  to  heaven, 
goes  up  the  fearful  shriekin'  wail  —  a  wail  like 
spirits  cryin'  through  the  night,  a  wail  that 
thrills  wi'  dread  one's  very  flesh  an'  makes  the 
blood  run  cold. 

"  And  in  the  middle  o'  the  room  is  set  a 
wooden  bier.  All  plain  and  rude  it  is  —  the 
portion  of  the  poor.  The  hurdles  stand;  rough 
wood  lies  loose  on  top,  rough  wood  below; 
above,  the  candles  feebly  burn;  see  how  they 
flare  an'  gutter  in  the  smoke,  an'  throw  their 
glimmer  through  the  nickerin'  gloom  on  throngs 
of  livin'  ghosts !  See  how  the  weird  light  falls 
on  shinin'  tins  all  sparklin'  round  the  walls. 
The  kettle  hisses  there;  the  fire  jumps  and 
falls,  jumps  an'  falls  —  ah,  jumps  an'  shows  that 
gruesome  thing  stretched  out  between  the  can- 
dles an'  the  floor  —  a  thing  all  shrouded  up,  all 
stark  an'  grim.  Ah,  God,  that  senseless  shape, 
that  poor  ould  face  so  calmly  restin'  there  an' 
peepin'  up  so  still  an'  cold  —  so  cold.  Whisht, 
the  fire  falls.  Back,  back  thou  gruesome  thing! 


228  A  Beggar's  Benefit. 

Whisht,  comes  once  more  the  merry  laugh,  the 
sharp  debate,  the  horrid  wail.  See,  there  again, 
the  heedless  groups  that  give  no  thought  to  life 
or  death  e'en  in  the  haunt  of  Death." 

The  old  man  paused ;  the  ring  pressed  closer ; 
silence  held  the  market-place ;  quicker  the  chant 
went  on : 

"  The  wake  was  nearly  done  ;  the  pipes  were 
out,  the  talk  grown  flat  an'  dull,  the  courtin' 
pairs  at  last  well  sick  of  love ;  ould  men  were 
fast  asleep,  the  young  a-noddin'  as  they  sat ;  no 
more  the  hags  gave  up  their  wail,  but  wagged 
their  hairy  chins  in  senseless  talk. 

"  The  wake  was  done  ;  and  yet  none  liked  to 
go,  for  out  of  doors  the  night  was  dark  and  wild. 
At  last  one  rose,  and  kicking  o'er  his  stool,  cried 
out,  '  Here  goes  ! '  then  started  for  the  door ; 
but  goin',  stumbled,  slipped,  and  wi'  a  helpless 
crash  fell  on  the  bier.  The  candles  fell;  up 
rose  the  dead;  quick,  like  a  flash,  the  shroud 
and  head-dress  blazed  —  blazed  up,  flared  out, 
and  showed  to  all  a  shape  that  sprang  like  life, 
all  wrapped  in  flame  —  sprang  up,  then  fell  and 
rolled  out  on  the  floor.  And  all  were  sure  that 
Connie  Roe  had  come  to  life  to  warn  them  of 
their  sins." 


A  Beggar's  Benefit.  229 

Quicker,  sharper,  went  the  old  man's  voice : 
"Then  came  a  scene.  A  panic  seized  them 
all.  With  shrieks,  an'  yells,  an*  curses  fierce 
an'  loud,  half  blind  wi'  fear,  half  mad  wi'  dread, 
the  wake  made  for  the  door.  Look,  there  they 
go.  Like  beasts  they  go  —  brute  beasts  —  and 
trample  other  down.  The  door  is  shut,  fast 
shut.  Hear  now,  the  cries  of  fear  turn  quick 
to  yells  of  pain.  Back,  back,  ye  men;  ye 
cowards  back  an'  let  the  women  go !  Oh, 
craven  hearts ;  oh,  coward  hearts ;  is  this  your 
Irish  blood  ?  See,  how  they  fight  an'  moil  like 
tigers  in  a  den.  Man  strives  with  man  and  man 
with  maid;  now  friend  is  foe  and  strength  is 
right.  Quick,  cravens,  quick;  that  thing  is 
there  behind.  Quick,  cravens,  quick!  One 
frantic  rush.  There,  there;  the  wall  goes 
down;  the  beasts  are  free.  .  .  .  Let  then  the 
flames  mount  high  and  give  dead  Connie  Roe 
a  martyr's  burial.  .  .  .  Ah,  God,  not  yet !  Back, 
cravens,  back !  The  roof  is  down,  is  all  ablaze. 
Hear  there  that  shriek.  It  comes  from  one,  a 
young  fair  girl,  fast  prisoned  in  that  blazing  tomb. 
Back,  back,  ye  men,  and  set  the  living  free  ! 

"What!    Gone?    All  gone?    Oh,  hearts  of 
straw! 


230  A  Beggar's  Benefit. 

"  Blow  then,  ye  winds,  blow  hard  and  lick  the 
flames ;  blow  hard,  and  ere  the  morn  strew  far 
and  wide  the  ashes  of  those  two  —  the  woman 
old,  and  her,  the  maiden  fair,  whom  cowards  left 
to  die. 

"  Peace  to  their  souls  /" 


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